


Like Tears in Rain

by CaitlinFairchild



Category: Blade Runner (1982), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Blade Runner - Freeform, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Romance, Thriller, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They were designed to copy human beings in every way except their emotions. The designers reckoned in a few years they might develop their own emotional responses. You know, hate, love, fear, anger, envy. So they built in a fail-safe device.”</p><p>“Which is what?” John asks.</p><p>“Four year lifespan.” The Chief Inspector takes a deep drag, exhales a plume of smoke. “There’s a Nexus 6 over at the Holmes Corporation. Latest model upgrade. I want you to put the machine on it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of John and Sherlock in the Blade Runner universe, with John as the Rick Deckard character...man, it just will not leave me alone. 
> 
> Un beta'd. Un anything'd, really.
> 
> Please leave comments and concrit. This is a whole new kind of departure for me, and feedback is the greatest, purest motivation!
> 
> Not really a WIP; most of this is already written. Updates on Wednesdays, if not sooner.
> 
>  
> 
> As ever, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr if you like:
> 
> [caitlinisactuallyawritersname](http://caitlinisactuallyawritersname.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ...or hit me up anytime at CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.
    
    
    _Early in the 21st Century, THE HOLMES CORPORATION advanced robot evolution into the NEXUS phase - a being virtually identical to a human - known as a Replicant. The NEXUS 6 Replicants were superior in strength and agility, and at least equal in intelligence, to the genetic engineers who created them. Replicants were used Off-World as slave labor, in the hazardous exploration and colonization of other planets. After a bloody mutiny by a NEXUS 6 combat team in an Off-World colony, Replicants were declared illegal on Earth - under penalty of death._
    
    
    _Special police squads - BLADE RUNNER UNITS - had orders to shoot to kill, upon detection, any trespassing Replicant._
    
    
    _This was not called execution. It was called retirement._

_**London, 2019** _

The stall nearest his flat isn’t very good, but it is cheap, and John is cold and soaked to the bone and hungry enough not to care much about dubious quality.

He makes his way carefully across the street--the damp, chilly rain is making his leg feel especially foul tonight--and slides gingerly into a vacant seat, leaning his cane against the leg of the stool.

The sign attached to the tray of skewers says “CHIKEN’” in large, handprinted block letters, with corresponding Kanji underneath, but John knows it to be a polite fiction; synth meat, most likely, or something vat-grown if he is exceptionally lucky. He gestures at the greasy pane of lexan. “Give me four.”

The elderly man behind the counter shakes his head. “Futatsu de jubun desuyo.” _Two are really enough._

“No, four,” John snaps. “Two, two, four. And noodles.”

John unwraps his chopsticks, scrapes them against each other in unconscious ritual. The counterman mutters to himself as he assembles the order, then drops the steaming food in front of John. The broth is fragrant with soy and green onion, and the noodles are rubbery but filling. He is barely on his third mouthful when he feels the distinct prickle on his neck that says someone is hovering right behind him.

And he knows exactly who that someone is.

“Piss off, Lestrade,” he growls, catching the counterman’s eye, cupping and tilting his hand towards himself, the ubiquitous sign for tea in all the languages of London. The elderly Asian man nods, filling a paper cup and setting it on John’s tray.

“Chief Inspector’s asking for you.”

“Don’t answer to him anymore.” John picks up the cup, drinks. The tea is weak and astringent, but caffeinated and blessedly hot.

“Something ugly’s come up. He needs you.” Lestrade drops into the vacant seat next to John, but doesn’t remove the tweed trilby pulled low over his eyes. He drops his tone to conversational. “He needs a blade runner, Watson, and he needs the best.”

The counterman’s head snaps up at the words. “Blade runner?” he asks in a heavy accent, looking at John as if seeing him through new eyes.

“Not me,” John says to the counterman, shaking his head dismissively. “He’s got the wrong guy.” 

Lestrade gives a long-suffering sigh. “John. Don’t make me arrest you.”

John falls silent, stares at the steaming bowl in front of him.

The noises of the street swirl around them: the splatter of rain on the plastic canopy above their heads, the hiss of grilling meat, the cacophony of voices laughing and yelling and crying, all of it overlaid always, always with the tooth-grinding buzz of the dirigibles overhead, falsely cheerful digitized tones on an endless droning loop. 

_A new life awaits you in the Off-World colonies._

Not for him. Never for men like him, for the hunters and killers who barely kept mutiny and chaos at bay. He has murder in his soul, he knows this for a fact, and no new life awaits him in the promised land of Off-World.

He sighs. “Fine. _Fine.”_ He slurps up a mouthful of noodles. “Let me eat first, for Christ’s sake.”

Lestrade drops a credit chip on the counter. “Make it takeaway.”

***

Lestrade pilots the spinner in silence, leaving John to his own thoughts.

He gazes out the streaked window as they rise above the teeming, rain soaked throngs of London, slipping in between the towering skyscrapers, past the flickering neon lights and hundred-meter high adverts, beautiful, pale-skinned women selling soft drinks and liquor and designer shoes against a backdrop of flowers and trees; a fantasy of Off-World luxury so far beyond the means of the huddled masses left behind in this slowly rotting megalopolis that it goes beyond depressing into a place of existential despair too profound to contemplate for more than a moment.

John Watson, however, is a man whose path in life is not especially conducive to metaphysical reflection. So he shuts it off, watches the colored lights against raindrops as he eats his rapidly cooling noodles.

New Scotland Yard is a towering column of steel and concrete, pushing oppressively against the damp sooty night of London. Lestrade brings the spinner up to the apex of the skyscraper; swooping gracefully around the summit of the building before dropping toward the rooftop helipad.

“Mark course,” a disembodied male voice murmurs gently. “Over the landing threshold.”

***

The exterior of the building may be a faceless modern monolith, but the interior has the battered, defeated feel endemic to police stations since the beginning of time.

The Chief Inspector is the sort who manages to look sweaty and rumpled from dawn to dusk, one of those career desk jockeys of indeterminate middle age with a retreating hairline and an expanding waistline. He looks up when John flings open his closed office door, Lestrade close on his heels.

“Hiya, Watson,” the Chief says with a forced joviality, the tone of a man backed into a corner and preparing to climb over whoever he has to to get out of it.

“Chief,” John says, carefully blank, anger tightly under wraps.

“You wouldn’t have come if I’d asked you,” the Chief says, a wheedling note edging into his tone. He gestures at the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, mate.”

A forgotten cigarette burns slowly in a glass ashtray on the edge of the battered oak desk; John briefly visualizes the blue smoke seeping into his lungs, sticky tar adhering to each alveoli.

Smoke, smog, radioactive dust. He feels like he hasn’t had a breath of clean, fresh air in years. Maybe ever.

Lestrade settles himself into a chair against the far wall as John shrugs, enters the room, pointedly leaning on his cane, each step a silent accusation. _Look what this job did to me._ He lowers himself into the offered chair, staring blankly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The chief picks up a manila file folder, hands it across the desk. John regards it with undisguised suspicion.

“Come on. Don’t be an arsehole, Watson. I’ve got four skin-jobs walking the streets.” 

John narrows his eyes but takes it, flips through the contents as the man behind the desk pulls out a bottle, two glasses. “They jumped a shuttle Off-World,” the Chief says as he pours. “Killed the crew and passengers. They found the shuttle drifting off the coast two weeks ago so we know they’re around.”

“Embarrassing,” John murmurs.

“No sir,” the Chief replies. “Cos no one’s ever going to find out they’re down here. Cos you’re going to spot them, and you’re going to air them out.”

John hates this beady-eyed fat-cheeked toad of a man, but he’s not going to refuse what looks like genuine whiskey. He nods minutely and tosses back the drink, sets the empty glass solidly atop the desk.

“I don’t work here anymore,” he says, carefully neutral, the alcohol burning in his belly. “Give it to Donovan. She’s good.”

“I did. She can breathe okay as long as no one unplugs her. She’s not good enough, not as good as you. I need you, Watson. This is a bad one, the worst yet. I need the old blade runner. I need your magic.”

John stands, picks up his cane, turns toward the door. “I was quit when I came in here,” he says, unable to keep the edge of anger out of his voice. “I’m twice as quit now.”

“Stop right where you are,” the Chief snaps coldly, all pretense of joviality gone. “You know the score. If you’re not cop, you’re little people.”

John instantly understands the implicit threat in the words. _Play along or I’ll ruin your life, worse than it’s already been ruined._

He turns back to the Chief. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lestrade place a folded bit of cigarette foil on the edge of the table. The origami bird perches on two tiny legs. _Keeps me from smoking_ he had said,when John once asked him point blank. _Something to do with my hands_. Still. Fucking unnerving, somehow.

“No choice, huh,” John states baldly, holding the Chief’s gaze.

The Chief Inspector smirks, knowing he’s won. “No choice, mate.”

***

John follows the Chief to the screening room at the end of the long, gloomy hallway.

(Lestrade’s buggered off to God knows where, probably lurking in a shadow somewhere, folding little origami frogs or bats or whatever and leaving them on random officer’s desks. John’s just glad he’s creeping someone else out for the moment.)

Behind drawn shades, John and the Chief Inspector watch the video of the last Voight-Kampff test Sally Donovan will ever give.

The test subject on screen is male, blondish, oddly aged-looking with yellow, rabbity teeth. He looks dull and sad, somehow, a man who isn’t intelligent enough to get by in the world but aware enough to be wounded by the fact. He is clearly uncomfortable, anxious, fidgeting in his seat.

_“I already had an IQ test this year,” Jefferson says. “ I don’t think I’ve had one of these.”_

_Donovan’s doesn’t even look up at him, her attractive, high-cheekboned face an impassive, impenetrable mask. “Reaction time is a factor, so please pay attention. Answer as quickly as you can.”_

_“Yeah, sure.”_

_“One-one-eight-seven at Hunterwasser--”_

_“Yeah, that’s the hotel.”_

_“Nice place?”_

_“Yeah, sure, I guess.”_

“Six replicants,” the Chief Inspector murmurs. “Three male, three female. Three nights ago they tried to break into the Holmes Corporation. Two of them got fried running through an electrical field. We lost the others. On the possibility they might try to infiltrate his employees, I had Donovan go over and run Voight-Kampff tests on the new workers. Looks like she got herself one.”

_“So you look down, you see a tortoise,” Donovan says. “It’s crawling toward you.”_

_The man’s watery blue eyes blink slowly in confusion. “A tortoise? What’s that?”_

“That’s Jefferson,” the Chief says quietly. "Ammunition loader on intergalactic runs. The only way to stop him is to kill him.”

_“Know what a turtle is?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Same thing.”_

_“I’ve never seen a turtle.”_

“I don’t get it,” John muses aloud. “What do they risk coming back to Earth for? That’s unusual. What do they want from the Holmes Corporation?”

“You tell me, mate.” The Chief offers John a cigarette; he demurs with a shake of his head. The policeman shakes one out of the pack, lights it one-handed. “That’s what you’re here for.”

The image on the screen changes; a rotating image of a different male replicant set against a pale grey background; this one is smaller, finer-boned, black-haired, his large brown eyes sharp and cunning. He almost seems to be smirking at the screen, and there's something in that look that makes John profoundly unsettled deep in his belly.

“What’s this?” John asks, leaning forward.

“Nexus 6. Jim Moriarty. Incept date 2016. Probably the leader. Much stronger than he looks, and cunning as all hell.” The image changes to that of a fine-boned, dark-haired female of indeterminate age and moderate attractiveness; her short hair is black, her eyes blank and cold. “This is Irene. Trained for an off-world kick-murder squad. Talk about beauty and the beast, she's both.” The video shifts yet again, to a baby-faced young man with wide, innocent hazel eyes. “The fourth skin job is Seb. A basic pleasure model, the standard item for military clubs in the outer colonies.” 

The Chief taps his burning cigarette into the near-overflowing ashtray on the table between them. 

“They were designed to copy human beings in every way except their emotions. The designers reckoned in a few years they might develop their own emotional responses. You know, hate, love, fear, anger, envy. So they built in a fail-safe device.”

“Which is what?” John asks.

“Four year lifespan.” The Chief Inspector takes a deep drag, exhales a plume of smoke. “There’s a Nexus 6 over at the Holmes Corporation. Latest model upgrade. I want you to put the machine on it.” He shakes his head. “These new ones, Watson. I don’t know.”

John glances over at the Chief. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, and he sees his own understanding mirrored in the older man’s weary brown eyes.

A replicant with Level C mental acuity should have been flagged by the VK test two questions in. _Easily._

“And if the machine doesn’t work?” John murmurs.

The Chief raises his eyebrows, brings his cigarette to his lips, inhales. Exhales.

 _Then we’re in deep shit_ is unspoken, but as palpable in the room as the plume of blue smoke.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John just stares, poleaxed, as Sherlock steps closer, crowding into his personal space, gazing down at him with a palpable intensity. “You’ve seen a great deal of violence. So many deaths.” 
> 
> John’s tongue flicks out to moisten parched lips. “Retirement. It’s called retirement.”
> 
> Sherlock’s voice drops to a gravelly purr. “Tell me, John. Have you ever _retired_ a human by mistake?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came along a bit faster than I'd anticipated, so enjoy!

Doctor Mycroft Holmes, CEO and President of the Holmes Corporation, resides in a spacious penthouse flat perched atop the monolithic ziggurat that houses the entirety of his business.

And business is good. Despite the rogue units, despite the uprisings, despite the banishment of replicants from Earth, the demand for unpaid labor will always, always persist, especially when it comes without the troubles of conscience regarding human chattel slavery.

Mycroft Holmes has created the perfect product to meet an unquenchable need, and he is consequently a very, very wealthy man.

John stands in the vast, hushed dining room of Dr Holmes’ private suite, all polished teak and cool smooth stone. He leans on his cane, feeling shabby and grimy and exceedingly out of place in his ill-fitting brown overcoat as he tries not to gape openly at the opulence surrounding him. A pet owl, resplendent in fluffy, barred tan and white plumage, regards him skeptically from its perch at the far end of the room. It tilts its feathered head as if to say, _What the hell are you doing in my rarefied air?_

 _No idea, mate,_ John thinks with a mental sigh. 

A door opens at the far, shadowed end of the long room. Measured footsteps cross the expanse of marble floor.

“You like our owl?” the young, pale man asks, his deep honeyed baritone echoing in the cavernous room as he steps out of the shadow and into the golden afternoon light pouring through the wall of windows.

He is not the man John was expecting.

He is tall, slender, all long lines and unselfconscious grace in a close-fitting black suit that clearly costs more than John makes in a month, possibly in a year. He wears no tie; his charcoal-grey shirt is open at the throat, framing his long neck and exposing the dip of his suprasternal notch. His dark hair is longer than John is used to seeing on a man, combed back at the sides and spilling over his forehead in an artful tousle of dark curls.

The face under that tumble of glossy black hair is a study in contradictions. He is more mature up close then at a distance, the masculinity of strong brows and angular cheekbones contrasting against the sensual delicacy of porcelain skin and soft full lips. His almond eyes are a fascinatingly unnameable color, a pale swirl of pale silver and green and blue, wide set and framed by long black lashes. 

He’s not handsome, exactly, but he’s vastly, endlessly fascinating to watch, _compelling,_ somehow, in a way John has never before experienced. 

_Christ. You’re a mess. Get ahold of yourself._ John pushes down his sudden, shockingly visceral reaction to this man, squares his shoulders, schools his face into impassivity.

“Is it artificial?” he asks, his voice mild and merely politely curious.

Something flickers in the man’s green eyes for an instant, there and gone so quickly that one not trained in observing reactions would miss it completely. John doesn’t.

“Of course it is,” he replies coolly. 

The owl looks at John with what could only be called contempt before taking wing.

“Must be expensive,” John says.

“ _Very_.”

“Sorry,” John begins, “but I don’t know your--”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson.” John meets the man's imperious gaze with equanimity. “Holmes, is it,” John says, the question evident in his inflection.

“Yes. Mycroft Holmes is my brother.” Sherlock's voice doesn't change, but somehow John can still sense an annoyed sigh lurking within.

“Do you work for him?”

“For the moment.” 

“You build replicants.”

“I do research. I don’t actually _build_ them.” Sherlock’s eyebrow quirks up just the barest fraction. “From your suppressed microexpressions, it seems you feel our work is not a benefit to the public.”

“Replicants are like any other machine. They’re either a benefit or a hazard. If they’re a benefit, they’re not my problem.”

The men regard each other for a moment, both silently assessing.

Sherlock tilts his head. “Chicago or Los Angeles?” 

John takes a half step back in surprise. “Los Angeles,” he replies. “How did you know?”

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back, a spark alight in his eyes.

“I know your posture says military, while your haircut, or rather your need of one, says it’s been a few years. The injury you suffered indicates you saw action, but you’re under one hundred seventy centimeters, which is the minimum height for Off-World volunteer military. You could leave Earth despite your injury, you have family Off-World--likely Proxima or Centauri Prime--but you refuse to go to them for help, maybe because of residual guilt over your profession. Not an ordinary policeman then, something more morally compromised. You’re here on the investigation into the four rogue Nexus 6 models that made it to Earth. So, you’re a blade runner. Which makes it likely a significant portion of your military experience involves putting down replicant uprisings. So: either Chicago or Los Angeles.”

John just stares, poleaxed, as Sherlock steps closer, crowding into his personal space, gazing down at him with a palpable intensity. “You’ve seen a great deal of violence. So many deaths.” 

John’s tongue flicks out to moisten parched lips. “Retirement. It’s called retirement.”

Sherlock’s voice drops to a gravelly purr. “Tell me, Mr Watson. Have you ever _retired_ a human by mistake?”

Their eyes are locked on each other, Sherlock’s wide black pupils surrounded by a rim of pale icy green, the color of early frost on a blade of grass. John distantly realizes he’s breathing hard, pulse racing, blood pounding in his ears like he’s just run a chase across the rooftops of Chinatown.

“Don’t mind him, he’s always like that,” murmurs another cultured voice behind him, breaking the odd hypnotic spell of the moment. 

Sherlock steps back, blinks. Straightens his spine.

“Mr Watson,” Sherlock says, his tone turned formal and serious. “Doctor Mycroft Holmes.”

John turns to see a ginger-haired, sharp-nosed man in a grey pinstriped suit, white shirt and white silk tie. He’s eyeing John with an unmistakable air of carefully patient condescension.

John dislikes him instantly.

“Capiillary dilation,” Holmes murmurs. “The so called blush response. Fluctuation of the pupil. Involuntary dilation of the iris. Is this--” he gestures at the space between Sherlock and John--“part of the test, then?” 

John edges back a step, away from the disconcerting pull of Sherlock Holmes, toward the long dining table. He gestures at the hardware arranged on the polished surface.

“ _That’s_ the test. Well, that’s the machine. The entirety of the test is known as Voight-Kampff analysis.”

“Demonstrate it.,” Dr Holmes demands, imperious. “I want to see it work.”

“Where’s the subject?” John asks.

“I want to see it work on a person. I want to see a negative before I provide a positive.”

“What’s that going to prove?”

“Indulge me.”

“On you?”

“Try him.”

Sherlock looks at his brother briefly before shrugging his consent, broadcasting a bored indifference John somehow suspects he doesn’t truly feel. He unbuttons his slim jacket and sits down at the heavy polished table.

“It’s too bright in here,” John says, and photoelectric shades darken the panes of glass, plunging the room into a dim grey twilight as he removes his overcoat and takes the seat opposite Sherlock.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Sherlock asks, long fingers already tapping a cigarette out of a silver case.

“it doesn’t affect the test,” John replies neutrally, making the final calibrations to his equipment. “All right, I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Just relax and answer them as simply as you can.” He exhales, modulates his voice into perfectly measured impassivity, a necessity for obtaining the most accurate results. “It’s your birthday. Someone gives you a calfskin wallet.”

“I wouldn’t accept it,” Sherlock replies instantly. “Also, I’d report the person to the police.” One dark eyebrow quirks upward a fraction. “Mainly for having such dreadful taste.”

“Keep it simple, please, Mr Holmes.” John adjusts a baseline reading. “You’ve got a little boy.”

“Not particularly likely,” Sherlock observes dryly.

You’ve got a little boy. He shows you his butterfly collection plus the killing jar.”

“I’d encourage his interest in leptidoptery, but I would explain the environmental devastation of World War Terminus and the need to protect and conserve the last few living creatures of Earth.” He taps the ash of his cigarette. “Then I’d show him how to build a brilliant artificial butterfly.”

“Have you ever met a question you could answer briefly, Mr Holmes?”

“Is this part of the test?”

“Let’s say it is.”

Sherlock’s eyes close briefly as he pretends to consider. “Ummmm. No.”

“You’re watching television. Suddenly you discover a wasp crawling on your arm.”

“You’re certain it’s a wasp? Not a bee?”

“Answer the question, Mr Holmes.”

“I’d kill it.”

“You’re reading a magazine. You come across a full page nude photo of a man.”

Sherlock takes a drag off his cigarette, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lush mouth. His pale, searching eyes bore into John, and the undisguised heat of his gaze sparks something shameful and wanting in John’s belly.

“Is this testing whether I’m a replicant or a homosexual, Mr Watson?”

John forces himself to keep his face passive, his eyes fixed steadily on Sherlock.

“Just answer the questions, please.”

***

The afternoon slowly dissolves into evening as the questions continue. Sherlock shows no sign of flagging; John, however, feels exhausted, drained, wrung out and hung to dry.

“One more question. You are watching a stage play. A banquet is in progress. The guests are enjoying an appetizer of raw oysters. The entree consists of boiled dog.”

The unsettling non-question hangs in the air between the two men. Sherlock shifts in his chair slightly, stubs out his tenth cigarette.

A small monitor to John’s left, visible only to him, flickers to life. A string of coded text flashes, green on black.

A moment passes. Then another.

“Are we done here, Mr Watson?” Mycroft Holmes finally asks, breaking the silence.

John nods. “We’re finished,” he says calmly, far more calmly than he feels, every inch the professional as he banishes the press of difficult, unsettling feelings (sorrow, disappointment, anger, confusion) to the farthest darkest corner of his mind.

The electronic shades covering the panoramic windows dissolve, revealing a gorgeous sunset, glowing orange-pink-gold through a poisoned sky. 

_It’s beautiful from up here_ , John thinks.

“Very good,” Doctor Holmes murmurs, regarding him speculatively over the rim of his silver glasses. “With that out of the way, Mr Watson, I’d like to make an offer.”

“An offer?”

“You’re searching for four rogue units that came from our company. I’d like to extend an offer of assistance from the Holmes Corporation. A show of goodwill, so to speak, to indicate our willingness to cooperate with Scotland Yard.”

John purses his lips.“I’m not sure I follow.”

“He means me,” Sherlock interjects. “Not that I’ve been asked.”

“Sherlock,” Doctor Holmes says with exaggerated patience. “Would you be willing to assist Mr Watson with his investigation?”

Sherlock stubs out his cigarette, shrugs, nods in assent.

“Sherlock is an expert in the Nexus 6 units,” Doctor Holmes states. “He knows their specifications, their abilities, their reasoning processes better than anyone else in London. Well, aside from myself, of course. His insight will prove invaluable, I’m sure.”

“I appreciate the offer, Doctor, but that’s really not necess--”

“In addition, he is an uncommonly keen observer. He could be a great asset to your investigation, I believe.”

John knows this is against every rule he knows of and likely some he doesn’t. He opens his mouth to politely refuse. What he says instead is. “Well. All right. Thank you.”

Sherlock nods. “I have experiments that need tending. Mycroft, have someone fetch me when Mr Watson is ready to leave.”

Doctor Holmes nods. Sherlock shifts his searching gaze to John.

“One question for _you_ , Mr Watson,” he says.

“Yes?”

“The leg pain.” Sherlock’s head tilts in brief contemplation.” It’s psychosomatic, isn’t it?”

Before he can stop himself, John’s eyebrows lift in surprise. 

“The police counselor seemed to think so,” he admits.

“I see.” Sherlock nods once, turns on his heel, and disappears into the shadows. A door at the far end of the room slides open, then closes with a soft click.

“He’s a replicant,” says John. “Isn’t he?”

Mycroft Holmes is still for a moment, eyes still trained on the doorway, lost momentarily in a private thought before turning to John.

“I’m impressed,” he says. “How many questions does it usually take to spot them?”

John looks up at him, brow creased. “I don’t get it, Holmes.”

“How many questions?” Holmes repeats.

“The really smart ones?” John shakes his head. “Twenty, thirty, cross-referenced.”

“It took more than a hundred for Sherlock, didn’t it?”

Realization dawns. “You thought he might pass the test,” John says.

“I had rather hoped,” Holmes says, sounding a bit put out.

"He doesn’t know what he is,” John says. It’s not a question.

“Sherlock is…” Holmes rubs his eyes with a pale hand, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. “He’s a tremendous advancement from the Nexus 6. I’ve managed to overcome key limitations in the physical matrix, and neurologically, he’s magnificent. He’s like nothing I’ve ever developed before. And…no. He doesn’t know for certain. He’s beginning to suspect, I think.”

“Suspect?” John repeats, incredulous. “How could he not know what he is?” 

“We began to recognize patterns of behavior,” Holmes replies. “Strange obsessions. After all, they are emotionally inexperienced with only a few years to store up memories. If we gift them with a past we create an emotional cushion, which make them easier to control.”

“Memories.” John breathes, staring at Holmes in growing revulsion. “You’re talking about memories.”

“Yes,” Holmes says simply. “Of a past that he never had.”

“Where did they come from?”

“A cousin of mine. Sherrinford.”

“You’ve used those memories to make Sherlock believe he’s your brother.” 

“Out of psychological necessity. A fiction which encourages him to accept my control over him, albeit resentfully.” Something in Holmes’ eyes shutters, goes blank and cold. “Understand, Mr Watson. Commerce is our goal here at Holmes Corporation. ‘More human than human’ is our motto. Sherlock was a necessary prototype. He’s an experiment, nothing more.”

John rises from his seat; his fist clenches, reflexively, betraying the tangled, irrational press of emotions in his chest. “He’s an experiment. And you lie to him, make him believe... you call him _brother_.”

“Spare me your righteous indignation, Mr Watson. No matter what he looks like, he’s not human.”

“I know that,” John snaps.

“More to the point,” Holmes continues, “he’s a replicant, the very creation you’ve made a career out of killing. Explain to me, then, why do you _care_ about what I call him _?_ ”

John has no satisfactory answer to that question so he says nothing. He turns, picks up his cane from where it rests against the table.

“Mr Watson,” Holmes says, quieter, but with the unmistakable command of a man used to being obeyed. “ _John_.”

Years of military training make John stop despite himself.

“Don’t tell him,” Mycroft says, and John knows despite the man’s callous words, he’s not imagining the thread of concern in his tone. “He’s not… I don’t…” Mycroft sighs. “Please.”

John is still for a moment, then gives a single, curt nod before walking away, leaving Mycroft Holmes to his cavernous shadows and silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's reference to "World War Terminus" is taken from Philip K. Dick's _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_ , the novel upon which Blade Runner is (very, very) loosely based.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John curses under his breath as he moves to the window. The rain has stopped; he watches Sherlock leave the building, coat swirling gracefully about this his slender frame as he disappears around the corner, out of sight.
> 
>  _I lost him,_ John thinks. Irrational panic rises in his throat, hot and metallic. 
> 
> “Doesn’t matter.” John mutters to no one in particular as he shrugs, miming indifference. “He’s a grown man. Didn’t ask for his help anyway, did I.”
> 
> He can’t seem to pull himself together, though, can’t seem to calm his racing pulse. The room seems to shrink, the depressing walls close and stifling. John needs to get his head together. He needs a drink. He gathers up the scattered photographs, pockets them and brushes past Lestrade as he leaves without another word.

_"One-one-eight-seven at Hunterwasser."_

_""Yeah, that’s the hotel."_

_"What?"_

_"Where I live."_

John is re-watching the video of Donovan’s ill-fated encounter when Sherlock joins him, slipping graciously into the passenger seat of the spinner despite the bulk of his voluminous dark-grey tweed coat.

John’s face is impassive, but he can’t help but glance out the corner of his eye at Sherlock’s profile, the clean line of his jaw, the length of his neck now wrapped in a soft blue scarf. He’s almost overwhelmed by the momentary impulse to pull that fabric away and taste the pale warm skin hidden underneath.

 _I’m losing my mind,_ he thinks helplessly.

“Mr. Holmes,” he says, carefully neutral.

“Sherlock, please.” Sherlock indicates the vidscreen with a minute tilt of his head. “I presume that’s where we’re going,” 

“It’s the obvious place to start,” John replies, “and at the moment it’s all I’ve got.”

The pair fall silent as the spinner slices through sheets of heavy rain. John tries to stay removed, tries to maintain his calm, tries to not notice how good Sherlock smells despite the cigarette smoke clinging to him, sandalwood and oranges and something deeper underneath he can’t quite name.

He tries not to wonder if he’s been designed to smell that fucking fantastic.

“I’m making you uncomfortable,” Sherlock observes.

 _Yes._ “No.”

“Okay. You’ve got questions,” Sherlock says, either fundamentally or deliberately misreading the cause of John’s discomfort. Though, at the same time, of course, he’s completely correct as well.

 _I do,_ John thinks. _So many. And yet I can't ask the really important ones._

John shifts his focus to the safest relevant inquiry. “Why did your brother ask me to take you on a criminal investigation?” he asks. “It’s a violation of about twenty different police protocols, as I’m sure you know.”

“Presumably he thought you could use my help.” Sherlock shrugs, just the slightest lift of one shoulder. “And generally speaking, the rules don’t much apply to Mycroft Holmes.”

“I’ve noticed. Even so, the police aren’t exactly in the habit of consulting with amateurs.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, looks down, fiddles with the cuff of his coat before looking back at John. “Earlier, before the test. You were surprised that I knew you have family off world.”

John nods. “I was. How did you know that?”

“I looked at your coat.”

“My coat.”

“Your coat. It was originally very expensive, but is a bit dated, a style popular several years ago. At first glance, it looks to be leather--but that’s clearly not the case, true leather has been banned for twenty years. Looking more closely, the delicacy and consistent grain say it’s artificial, epithelial cells grown in a zero-gravity matrix. That means Off-World, likely Proxima colony, possibly Centauri Prime. Though it is theoretically possible you picked it up in a consignment shop, it is noticeably too large for you, which indicates it was a gift, a hand-me-down, not something you purchased for yourself. Therefore, a gift from a member of the family who no longer wanted it. That’s a younger man’s coat, though. Not a father or uncle, though. A sibling, most likely.” Sherlock paused, took a breath, looks at John out of the corner of his eye, his face expectant.

John gives a small sigh as he checks altitude, adjusts stabilisers to compensate for the gusting wind buffeting the small craft. “You’ve got more, don’t you?” John said. “Go on, then.”

“I initially surmised you hadn’t joined your family Off-World because of your career choice, which is partially true. But there’s an element of family discord as well, isn’t there?”

“What makes you think that?”

“When you removed your coat to sit down at the table, I saw the monogrammed label sewn below the inner breast pocket. _To Charles, with love from Harry._ Why would someone give away a gift that expensive, given ‘with love’? A suit or a pair of trousers could be outgrown with weight gain, but a generously cut overcoat wouldn’t. So it was deliberately given away. The coat is only a little too big in the shoulders, but several inches too long, indicating the original wearer was quite a bit taller than you. Statistically, the deviation between same-sex siblings is generally less than three inches. So not your brother, Harry but his partner, then. Charles. But why? To give away a gift indicates a rift in the relationship between the giver and the recipient, but your brother in law isn’t the guilty party--his innocence means he still feels close enough to you to give you something personal and of value. That indicates the split was instigated by something your sibling did. Infidelity, perhaps, or working too many hours--that is an expensive coat, after all. Perhaps drinking. Perhaps all three. You love your brother, but his behaviour has driven a wedge in the family, enough that you choose not to join them Off-World.” Sherlock adjusts his scarf, tucking the ends tightly into his collar. “So you see, you are right. My brother was not offering you the assistance of an...amateur.”

John can’t help but smile as he shakes his head in disbelief. “That was...amazing.”

He doesn’t miss the flash of pleased warmth that crosses Sherlock’s sharp features. “Do you think so?” he asks, almost shy.

“Of course it was,” John replies. “It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock murmurs.

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John laughs despite himself. 

Sherlock doesn’t laugh, but a smile tugs at his lips as he turns his traitorous face toward the rain-streaked window. “Did I miss anything?” 

“Harry and I don’t get on, it’s true. And yes, too much working and too much drinking caused the split; it’s a shame, Charles is a lovely chap.”

“Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

“...Except Harry is short for Harriet.”

“Harry’s your sister.” He sighs. “Your _sister_.” He shakes his head, dark curls over his forehead bobbing. “There’s always something, isn’t there.”

***

Lestrade is waiting on the pavement across the street from the block of flats in question, huddled under an eave in a vain attempt to avoid the pissing rain. He looks up at the sound of their footsteps, confusion and annoyance crossing his features.

“Who’s this, then,” he says without inflection.

“He’s with me,” John says shortly. “Sherlock Holmes. A consultant from the Holmes Corporation.”

Sherlock and Lestrade stare flatly at each other, hands jammed in pockets. Neither speaks.

Lestrade gives John a pointed look, opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, then closes it with a shake of his head. “Fine,” he mutters. “No difference to me, if it gets ‘em caught.” He turns away, flips up his collar, and steps into the street. John glances at Sherlock; Sherlock shrugs, just a hitch of one shoulder. John nods, and the two men follow Lestrade across the street.

The elderly, wheezing landlord lets them into the flat. Jefferson is long gone, of course, though he left most of his meagre belongings behind in his haste. The rooms where he lived are shabby, sparse, but kept with a neat, almost military precision; the bed made with sharp corners, a comb and a book laid neatly on top of the bureau. Lestrade hangs back in the doorway as John enters, Sherlock on his heels.

“What are we looking for?” Sherlock murmurs.

“Any clues that would tell us where to look next,” John replies. Sherlock nods, his icy eyes sweeping the small room.

The floor is clean, the windowsills free of dust. John looks under the bed, opens the nightstand drawer. It is empty. 

Sherlock slips quietly into the small bath, flicks on the light. John hears the cabinet over the sink open and close.

“John,” Sherlock calls out softly.

John enters the bathroom; the cheap fluorescent light on the tiled wall hums and crackles. Sherlock is kneeling by the bathtub, peering at the bottom.

A small iridescent flake glitters in the corner of the tub.

“Fantastic,” John murmurs (ordinarily taciturn to the point of being near-mute, John has no choice but to privately admit he says it mainly to see Sherlock’s eyes light up momentarily with pleasure, and _what the hell is that about_ ) as he fishes around in his pockets, pulling out a small plastic bag. “Hold this.” He bends over the tub, carefully picks up a bit of something translucent and wedge-shaped with the tip of his finger. 

“No gloves,” Sherlock observes. “Your protocols are lax indeed.”

John places the iridescent sliver carefully in the bag. “Gloves are for preserving the integrity of evidence for trial. Replicants don’t get trials.”

“So, blade runners are judge, jury, and executioner.” 

John doesn’t miss the accusatory note in Sherlock’s voice. “Something like that,” he says. Sherlock stares at him with that unnerving icy pale gaze, saying nothing, and John wonders if it’s blindingly obvious that very thought that has kept him awake on many, many sleepless nights.

“What do you think it is?” John says, deliberately changing the subject.

“Looks like an oversized fish scale of some sort,” Sherlock replies, holding the bag up to the light. "Some kind of artificial animal, I’d wager.” He carefully closes the bag and stows it in a pocket of his coat. 

John flicks off the bathroom light returns to the living room, Sherlock trailing close behind. Lestrade is still standing where John left him in the doorway; he has unearthed an unlit match from the depth of a coat pocket and is fashioning a tiny man out of the splinter of wood. A tiny man sporting a very prominent, very vulgar erection.

“Way to make yourself useful, Greg,” John grumbles.

Lestrade shrugs and ignores him.

John opens drawers and pokes through stacks of neatly folded shirts; plain cotton, nondescript workingman’s clothes. Underneath them he finds stack of photographs. Most of them look older, but one of the snapshots was taken in this very room. A dark haired man sits in a desk chair, his back to the camera. A slim, sharp-featured brunette female reclines fully clothed on top of the made bed. She is smiling, but her eyes look sad, lost.

John flips through them. “I don’t get it.”

“What?” Sherlock asks. 

“Why a replicant would keep photographs,” says John. “It doesn’t make any sense. It’s like--” 

“It’s like a toaster keeping a diary,” Lestrade supplies, placing his crude bit of sculpture on top of the vid console.

“Something like that,” John mutters, turning back to the bureau, squatting on his heels to investigate the lowest drawer. “These are new behaviours, for certain. I don’t know if it’s some kind of spontaneous emotional development or--” He’s rifling through folded trousers when he hears the rustle of fabric and the flurry of footsteps behind him; by the time he stands and turns, Sherlock is gone, the photographs scattered carelessly onto the bed where he dropped them.

John directs his surprised glare at Lestrade. 

“I don’t know, mate. He just got a funny look on his face and split.”

“And you just... _let_ him.”

“Ain’t his babysitter.” Lestrade pulls another bit of paper out of his pocket, begins to fiddle with it. “Don’t even know why the hell he was here.”

John curses under his breath as he moves to the window. The rain has stopped; he watches Sherlock leave the building, coat swirling gracefully about this his slender frame as he disappears around the corner, out of sight.

 _I lost him,_ John thinks. Irrational panic rises in his throat, hot and metallic. 

“Doesn’t matter.” John mutters to no one in particular as he shrugs, miming indifference. “He’s a grown man. Didn’t ask for his help anyway, did I.”

He can’t seem to pull himself together, though, can’t seem to calm his racing pulse. The room seems to shrink, the depressing walls close and stifling. John needs to get his head together. He needs a drink. He gathers up the scattered photographs, pockets them and brushes past Lestrade as he leaves without another word.

***

“I have a plan, baby,” James Moriarty croons softly to the vidphone monitor. “Just trust me. I’ve always taken care of you, haven’t I?”

“I don’t like being alone, Jim.” On the other end of the call, Sebastian’s guileless hazel eyes look near tears. “I miss you.”

Seb’s face on the screen looks young, so young, and looking at his wide scared eyes reminds Jim of the first time he laid eyes on the boy, turning tricks in the back room of that desolate bar outside the Feynman gate, a bruise darkening one perfect cheekbone as he plied the only trade he knew.

Jim killed six men, that night, men far too base and greedy and stupid to recognise a precious angel in their very midst, six filthy grasping humans who treated Seb as nothing more than a walking, breathing fucktoy. Jim had killed before, of course, but never before had he felt so glorious, so righteous in his slaughter. 

He rescued Seb that night, showed him he was so much more than what his creator made him to be, whispered fervent promises in his ear under the cover of darkness. And now Seb is an angel fallen to earth, all alone in this rotting, dying city, alone and cold and hungry because he believes in Jim, believes in his words, believes in his crusade.

Jim cannot fail him. He _cannot._

He gives Seb a gentle, reassuring smile, a smile no one else in the universe has ever seen, affection transforming his cold, murderous features into something tender and kind. “Soon, baby. I’ve got a plan, and I’ll have the information we need in a little while. It’s going to be all right. I promise.” 

“Okay.” Seb swallows, squares his shoulders, and it breaks Jim’s heart to see him try so hard to be brave. “Okay, Jim.” He kisses his fingers and presses them to the vidscreen before ending the call.

“I love you, tiger,” Jim murmurs to the darkened screen. He stands there a moment, staring at nothing as he gathers his thoughts, deliberately pushes Seb out of his mind to focus on the task at hand. He takes a deep breath, centering himself, refocusing before he opens the door of the vidphone kiosk. He strides over to where Jefferson stands, gazing off into space, eyes vacant and mouth just slightly agape.

Jefferson is useful, to be sure, but he most certainly not what anyone would call bright. It is not his fault. He is the way he was made, and despite his dimness he is one of Jim’s tribe, one of his brothers, and Jim cares for him despite how frustrating his limitations can be.

“Did you get your precious photos?” he asks, tamping down his annoyance, though a bit of his impatience still bleeds through.

Jefferson shakes his head sadly. “Men were there.”

“Policemen?” Jim asks.

Jefferson nods.

Jim says nothing as he turns away, crossing the rain-slicked street. Jefferson follows him, and the two men duck into the doorway of a windowless, green-neon-lit storefront garishly littered with signs in Chinese and holographic projections of disembodied eyeballs.

It takes Jim less than five minutes to override the electronic locks on the thick insulated door to Shan’s cryonic lab.

Tanks and freezers line every wall of the tiny, frozen workspace. 

Shan is humming and muttering to herself in Mandarin as she works; tending to her crop of eyeballs, she does not hear the two replicants enter her icy domain.

The tiny woman wears a heated, ventilated enviro suit, a lined hood, and goggles against the burning cold of negative thirty degrees centigrade. Jim registers the cold, but it affects him not a bit, does not sear his lungs or slow his fingers as he grabs one of the hoses attached to the back of her suit and yanks hard.

Shan howls indignantly, a string of Chinese curses dropping from her lips as she turns to face her visitors. Her angry scowl shifts to an expression of surprise, shading rapidly into fear.

“You not belong here,” she cries, jabbing a gloved finger at the ice-glazed ceiling. “Up there! You Illegal!”

“Fiery the angels fell,” Jim murmurs, voice soft but full of menace. “And as they fell, deep thunder rolled around their shores; indignant, burning with the fires of Orc.”

He does so love a touch of the dramatic. It’s a weakness, to be sure. But then again, it’s his only weakness.

“You not come here,” Shan says. Her voice is shaking but she meets Jim’s gaze, terrified yet defiant. “Illegal. You not come here!”

Jefferson ignores them, wandering about the room with undisguised curiosity. He peers into a frost-crusted blue tank, dips his hand in, and fishes out a handful of frozen eyeballs. He drops them carelessly on the floor, inspects his own solidly frozen hand with mild surprise.

“Hey!” Shan snaps, annoyance overcoming her fear. “Those are my eyes!”

Jim looks the scientist up and down, then reaches out and tears the enviro suit in half, ripping it like tissue paper off Shan’s petite frame. She cries out in shock as fiery cold hits bare arms and neck.

“Morphology,” Jim intones. “Longevity. Incept dates.”

“I don’t know,” Shan gasps through chattering teeth. “I...I don’t know such stuff. I just do eyes. You Nexus, huh? I design your eyes.”

“Oh Shan,” sighs Jim. “If only you could see the things I’ve seen with your eyes.” He pauses, leans forward, pinning her down with the unblinking dark gaze she created. “My questions?”

“I don’t know answers.”

“Who does?”

“Holmes. He--he knows everything.”

“Holmes Corporation?”

“Mycroft Holmes. He’s big man. Big boss. He design--” Shan recovers a shred of bravado, reaches up to tap the side of Jim’s head with a gloved finger. “--up here. Your mind, your brain.”

“Ah, smart,” says Jim, his breath pluming in the icy air. “Good answer, Shan.”

“Cold,” Shan mutters through chattering teeth. “Please. Very cold.”

“Not an easy man to see, though, is he?”

“Molly. She take you there.”

“Molly. Molly who?”

“Molly Hooper.” Shan’s speech is growing slurred, her lips turning blue. “So cold. _Please_ \--”

Jim smiles at her, a terrifying rictus even colder than the air around them. “Now, where would we find this Molly Hooper?”

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know why he told you what he did.” Sherlock says, and the pain in his voice makes John feel both devastated and infuriated simultaneously.
> 
> “Talk to _him_ ,” he snaps.
> 
> “He won’t see me,” Sherlock says, rough and desperate.

The thirty-fourth floor of New Scotland Yard seems even more dismal at night; half the lights are cut, the shadows stretching gloomy and long. A few officers drift about here and there, but their presence does little to relieve the sense of forlorn abandonment.

The bottle of vodka is still in its usual spot, tucked into the lower left hand drawer of Donovan’s desk, halfheartedly hidden behind a stack of ancient unfiled paperwork. 

John pours two fingers into an empty coffee mug, downs it in a single swallow. Pours another.

The cursor on the screen blinks at him, waiting.

He hadn’t even intended to end up here. Not ready to face the echoing loneliness of his cluttered flat, John thought he’d find a hole in the wall dive somewhere, get enough alcohol in his system that he could sleep blank and dreamless for at least a few hours. 

But the mystery of Sherlock Holmes calls to him, his curiosity about the man ( _not a man_ ) an unscratchable itch under his skin, the image of pale eyes and dark hair now a permanent fixture in his mind. He needs context, he tells himself. He needs the hard reality of information in front of his eyes, needs the inescapable truth laid bare before him.

Sherlock Holmes is not a human being. He is a machine, nothing more, and the sooner John gets that through his thick skull, the better for all involved.

Still he hesitates. Several long minutes pass in silence as John contemplates the black monitor.

The amber baritone he can’t escape murmurs in his head. _Don’t sit here and prevaricate. Either do it or don’t._

“Right, then.” John drains the cup, the fiery liquid burning its way down into his belly as he leans forward. “John Watson,” he says clearly, his diction crisp despite the liquor. “Blade runner, designation B-two-six-three-five-four.”

The computer beeps. _CONFIRMED_ flashes in the top left corner of the screen.

“Regarding case file ACD one-eight-nine-five. Holmes Corporation. All records pertaining to--” John’s gaze flicks to the bottle of vodka. He decides against it. Numbed is fine, but he’s no use to anyone roaring drunk. “All records pertaining to replicant designated Sherlock Holmes.”

The screen flickers to life, a list of files scrolling down, sickly green text against black.

John scans for a moment, taps the keyboard, selects a folder labelled S_HOLMES, MEMORY IMPLANT MATRIX, 101-151 INCL.

His finger hovers over **Enter** , but lingering uncertainty stays his hand.

It feels so wrong, somehow. Like digging into Sherlock’s head without permission. Like a violation.

 _For God’s sake, John,_ the honeyed voice in his head sighs, annoyed. _If you don’t look it’s going to eat away at you. Satisfy your curiosity and be done with it._

He sighs and presses the key.

***

Turning the corner onto West Smithfield, Sebastian wraps his too-large coat a bit tighter around himself, a poor defence against the creeping endless damp. 

It’s a patchy, ratty faux-fur thing; Jim had wanted to buy him another, something nicer, but though Seb could never bear to say no to Jim, that single time he had refused outright. A kindly, aging female prostitute--human, not replicant-- had given it to him, one night early on, when the environmental controls at the Feynman Gate had gone wonky and the station plunged into bitter cold. Seb still remembers how the woman insisted she take his coat, even as he tried to explain the cold bothered him not a bit.

(It was a single, selfless act in Seb’s short, unkind life, and if he had the emotional vocabulary for it, he would have said that woman, long since dead, was the closest thing to a mother he had ever known.)

He saunters down the sidewalk as casually as he can, trying not to attract attention, trying not to look out of place on the wet, desolate, trash-strewn street. The street sweepers and police spinners pay him no notice. He blends seamlessly into the desolate landscape, just another grimy, underfed hooker, his dark hair a tangled rat’s nest, heavy charcoal eyeliner smudged and streaked from rain and exhaustion.

Seb reaches his destination. He drops his cigarette to the pavement and grinds it out with the toe of his boot before ducking into a paper-strewn archway entrance at the end of long, ancient-looking, lowslung edifice of grey stone. Most of the windows are broken or boarded over; the building looks as forlorn and abandoned as the streets surrounding it.

He hunkers down into the shadows of the archway. The windblown sheets of newsprint piled against the wall are dryish, protected against the evening’s driving rain. Seb gathers some to cover himself against the damp creeping chill, settles himself against the wall, and waits. 

He doesn’t have to wait long.

A battered groundcar pulls up in front of the building, and a slight, stooped figure emerges. A woman, her features delicate in profile, body cocooned in a long, buky coat topped with a colorfull knitted scarf.

It’s not until she’s less than a metre away that Seb realises Molly Hooper is very, very old. Or rather, she looks old--her shoulders are sloping, her face as greying as the stone wall, seamed with creases and wrinkles. Her eyes, however, are a contradiction, bright and sharp, indicating that she may not be as aged as she first appears.

She’s fishing in her coat pockets for her keys when she sees Seb tucked against the stone, half-hidden by newspapers. She screams, dropping her keys onto the damp, sticky pavement as she startles.

Seb squeals and jumps, darts out of the entranceway, dropping his battered shoulder bag as he scrambles away. He pauses, turns back, eyes the woman with a carefully calculated air of frightened, childlike uncertainty.

“Hey.” The petite woman takes a tentative step forward, picks up the dropped bag, holds is out to Seb. “You forgot your bag.”

Seb edges cautiously towards her, movements skittish.

“Don’t worry,” murmurs the woman reassuringly. “I won’t hurt you.” She laughs, self-deprecating. “I couldn’t hurt anyone, I don’t think. Are you going to hurt me?”

“No,” Seb says, shaking his head. 

“That’s good,” The woman says. “Here. Take your bag.”

Seb takes the bag from her outstretched hand. He blinks, all big sad eyes.

“I’m lost,” he says in a tiny voice.

“What’s your name?” the woman asks, coaxingly, as if trying to entice a kitten forward to drink a saucer of milk.

“Sebastian.”

“Mine’s Molly. Molly Hooper.”

“Hi.”

“Hi. Where were you going? Home?”

“I don’t have one,” he says in a small, sad voice. They regard each other for a moment, then Seb gives her one of his sweet smiles, boyish, bashful.

“We scared each other pretty good, didn’t we?” he says with a nervous laugh.

“We sure did.”

Seb stares at the damp pavement, nudges a battered crisp wrapper with the toe of his boot. “I’m hungry, Molly,” he murmurs, looking up at her through long black eyelashes, beseeching.

“I’m taking a chance, here, but.” Molly bends to pick up her dropped keys; she rises, tilts her head, studies him for a moment. “I’ve got some stuff inside. You want to come in?”

Seb smiles, happy as a child. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Come on, then,” Molly says, unlocking the heavy gate and pushing it open. Seb keeps a respectful distance away as he follows her up the dark stairs, the gloom broken by an occasional flickering bulb. “Watch the water,” she murmurs at the top of the first flight of stairs, gesturing for Sebastian to step around a puddle of rainwater that takes up the centre of the stairwell.

Whatever is wrong with Molly seems to make her tire easily, and they ascend the second set of steps slowly. 

At the top of the stairs, Molly pushes the door open, then holds it as she beckons for Sebastian to join her. She fumbles for the light switch and flips it, chasing away the gloom with the brilliance of a huge, incongrously garish chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling. Its glowing prismatic light dances over half-demolished walls and bare, dusty floorboards. Most of the interior walls have been roughly knocked down to create one large, unfinished area. In the middle of the space several couches and easy chairs have been grouped to create a makeshift sitting room. Various bits and pieces of machinery Sebastian cannot identify are tucked into corners, as are silent, human-shaped mannequins and what looks like hospital equipment.

“You live in this building all by yourself?” Seb asks.

“No housing shortage around here right now,” Molly says ruefully. “This used to be a hospital. Nobody else wanted it, so I took it.” She chuckles. “I didn’t do the work. Someone else used to live here. They...well, they emigrated, or disappeared at any rate, and I took it over.”

“Must get lonely here,” Sebastian says sadly.

“Oh, not really. I make friends. They’re toys. My friends are toys. I make them. I’m a genetic designer. Do you know what that is?”

“No,” Seb says honestly.

“Yoo-hoo,” Molly calls. “Home again, home again, jiggity jig.”

Two forms lumber out of the darkness. One is about a metre high, dressed like a clock work soldier, with a white face and circle of rouge on its cheeks The other is over two metres tall, grey-skinned, red eyes glowing and a glimpse of pale fangs visible.

“Home again, home again. Good evening, Molly,” the toys say in unison.

“Good evening, fellas,” Molly says kindly. The toys turn and march away, back to their places in the shadowy corners. 

“They protect me,” Molly said. “Keyed to my voice. They’re my friends. I feel safe, and I’m never lonely.” Molly turns her head to look fully at Seb. “Where are your folks?” she asks.

“I’m kind of an orphan,” Seb admits.

“Oh.” Molly’s lined face creases in sympathy. “Do you have friends?”

“I have some. But I have to find them. I’ll let them know where I am tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Molly says. “Good.” She unwraps the scarf from around her neck and takes off her voluminous coat, places her things on a low table by the door. She looks Seb up and down. “You poor boy,” she clucks maternally. “You’re soaked, aren’t you? Let’s get you dry. My friends have got some clothes you can wear in the meantime.”

“Okay,” Seb says. 

***

It’s close to ten when John finally gives in and goes home.

He barely registers the drive back to his flat. He’s not drunk, exactly, but not quite sober either when he limps into his building lift. The lighting is dim and flickering, in need of replacement; John can’t remember a time when they were otherwise, to be honest.

He can’t remember a time when every single thing in London wasn’t breaking down, wasn’t dying.

He feels a little like he’s dying, too.

“Voice print identification,” a disembodied voice intones.

He rubs at his eyes. “Watson. Two-two-one.”

“Two-two-one,” The voice replies. “Thank you. _Danke. Merci._ ”

The already-struggling lights dim as elderly servomotors whir to life. The lift lurches slightly and begins to rise. A wave of exhaustion washes over John; he braces his arm against the wall and rests his forehead against it, closing his eyes for just a moment.

A soft rustle behind him cuts through his torpor like a razorblade.

 _Oh, shit._ John curses himself for his utter lack of awareness. Stupid, so fucking _stupid_ of him. He tenses for a moment, readies himself, wills himself into deadly calm before he spins his body around to face his unknown adversary, drawing his gun in a single fluid movement.

It’s Sherlock. His slender frame is swallowed up by his voluminous overcoat, his pale skin gone grey and stretched tight across his skull, his green eyes wide with something very akin to fear.

John's gun is trained dead center at Sherlock’s chest; the muzzle trembles just minutely for a moment as John’s forebrain struggles to catch up. Adrenaline floods his system as he realises how hideously close he came to pulling the trigger. He lowers his weapon, gazes in mute horror at Sherlock. 

“I...I wanted to see you,” Sherlock says. “So I waited.” He’s awkward, halting and uncertain, nothing at all like the cool, elegant creature John met just hours earlier. 

John shakes his head, shoulders slumping. He’s drawn to Sherlock, so utterly, mystifyingly drawn to him, but right now exhaustion and confusion and despair are pulling at him, dragging him under, and he somehow wants to simultaneously hold Sherlock close and at the same time push him away, never lay eyes on him again, somehow avert the certain ruination and despair he knows awaits.

In that moment John wishes, desperately, that he had never met Sherlock Holmes.

The lift comes to a shuddering halt and the door opens. John steps out into the hallway, his uneven footsteps echoing on tile. He walks down the hallway, Sherlock following, and stops in front of a door marked 221B, incongruously retro tarnished brass on the slab of grey molded resin. John digs in the breast pocket of his overcoat for his keycard. He fishes it out but his hands are shaking uncontrollably and the card clatters to the ground. He leans heavily on his cane as he scoops it up, turns, slots it into the lock and opens the door.

“I don’t know why he told you what he did.” Sherlock says, and the pain in his voice makes John feel both devastated and infuriated simultaneously.

“Talk to _him_ ,” he snaps.

“He won’t see me,” Sherlock says, rough and desperate.

John enters his flat and slams the door in Sherlock’s face. Regrets it immediately. Pulls the door open and turns away, unwilling (unable) to look Sherlock in the eye in that moment. John moves through his dark, cluttered-verging-on-filthy flat, pours himself two fingers of synthetic Scotch before he even takes his coat off. “You want a drink?” he asks.

“You think I’m a replicant,” Sherlock says.

John exhales, shakes his head. “Look. I’m--I’m not--”

Sherlock pulls something out of his coat pocket, holds it out towards John. “It’s me with my brother. I remember it. We had a picnic, on a flat rock by the river. It was hot. Mycroft had a tennis ball. He threw it in the water and Redbeard chased it.” Sherlock gazes at him, his eyes beseeching, asking John for something he can’t give. “John. I _remember it_.”

Something about the naked anguish on Sherlock’s face makes irrational, unkind anger flare in John, bright and hot.

“Remember when you were six?” John shrugs off his coat, tosses it carelessly aside with his cane, sinks down into a nearby chair. “You and your brother snuck into an empty building through a basement window. You were gonna play doctor. He showed you his, but when it got to be your turn you chickened and ran. Remember that? You ever tell anyone that? Remember the spider that lived in a bush outside your window? Orange body, green legs. You watched her build a web all summer. Then one day there was a big egg in it. The egg hatched.”

“The egg hatched,” Sherlock echoes, his voice soft.

John takes a swallow, stares into his glass for a moment, looks back up at Sherlock. “And.”

“And a hundred baby spiders came out,” Sherlock says in a broken, gravelly whisper. “And they ate her.”

“Implants,” John says, hating the hurtful edge in his voice but unable to stop. “Those aren’t your memories. They’re Mycroft’s cousin’s.”

Sherlock stares at him, unmoving, rooted to the spot. His pale eyes glitter in the low light, and John realises they are brimming with unshed tears. It makes something in his chest tight and painful, like he’s having a heart attack. Or like something inside of him is breaking, edges brittle and razor-sharp. He looks away, takes a swallow of his drink. The bitter edge of synthetic scotch tastes metallic on his tongue.

“Okay." John shakes his head. "Bad joke. I made a bad joke. You’re not a replicant. Go home, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at the floor, his proud shoulders slumped in defeat. John feels like a grade-A arsehole, taking out his frustration and confusion on the one truly blameless party in this entire horrorshow.

“No really,” John says, his voice softer, rough with tangled, inchoate feelings. He stands, moves closer to Sherlock. “I’m sorry. Go home.” Sherlock is frozen, immobile save for the tremor of his lips. A single tear escapes; John watches the drop slide down a sharp, perfect cheekbone. He is seized by the mad desire to pull Sherlock close and kiss away his tears; instead he forces himself to turn away, to put distance between their bodies before he does something impulsive and foolish and wrong.

“Want a drink?” he asks. “I’ll get you a drink. I’ll get a glass.” 

John ducks into the tiny kitchen; all of his dishes are filthy, stacked haphazardly in the overflowing sink. He pulls out the least-dirty tumbler he sees, rinses it under the sluggish flow from the tap. As he’s wiping it down, he hears footsteps retreating. The front door opens, then slams shut.

The sitting room is empty when John returns. 

Next to his glass lies Sherlock’s photograph, crumpled into a rough ball. 

John picks up the picture, smoothes it carefully, slips it into his pocket. He grabs the blanket draped over the arm of the couch, wraps it around his shoulders, and takes his tumbler out to the narrow balcony of his flat, a tiny claustrophobic strip crowded in on every side with the walls of even taller buildings. John takes a sip of his drink and gazes at the lights of streets so far below, then sighs and pulls Sherlock’s photograph out of his pocket.

The battered, creased photo shows two smiling little boys in swimming trunks, sitting on a flat grey rock on the edge of a rippling river. Their arms are wrapped around the shaggy neck of a friendly-looking Irish Setter.

John closes his eyes and swallows against a spike of pain. Sorrow pierces his heart for the crime of a stolen life, for the loss of something precious that never even truly existed.

He thinks of his own photographs, the ones he keeps neatly arranged on top of his treasured piano, the hulking antique crammed illogically into his tiny sitting room. The pictures of his parents, of Harry, of Mary. The pictures he pulls out and studies obsessively on bad nights, nights when the violence and suffering and death feel like too much to bear. Pictures of people who love him--or did, hopefully, once upon a time.

He wonders what it would feel like to be told everything in those pictures was a lie.

John drains his glass and goes back inside the flat. He sits down in front of the old out-of tune piano, plinks out a few notes of a half-remembered song.

He thinks about Sherlock, of course. He’s a replicant yet John feels for him, grieves for him, finds he’s utterly unable to stop himself from wanting him, wanting to hold and touch and comfort him, wanting to ease the pain in those pale, haunted eyes.

He thinks about how he can’t remember ever feeling like this before. Not about Mary, not about anyone in his entire life.

He thinks about how he’s utterly, irretrievably screwed and he knows it, knows it down to his bones.

While thinking John falls asleep without meaning to, and he dreams.

It’s an old dream, a familiar one. A beautiful, powerful unicorn gallops through a lush green wood, sunlight shining on snow-white flanks as birds sing overhead, a gentle music John has never once heard in his waking life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve walked out twice on me tonight. And here I thought I was being charming.” John tries to smile; it feels false, hollow, like it hangs all wrong on his face. He gives it up.
> 
> One of Sherlock’s dark brows quirks up a fraction; John can’t quite tell if it means _You're an enormous arsehole_ or _Do go on_. Maybe it means both. 
> 
> “I’m in a bar down in the First Sector,” John continues. “Taffey’s, right on the line.”
> 
> “The First Sector?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Not really my area.”

John wakes suddenly, disoriented, fuzzy-edged and dry-mouthed. He fell asleep sitting at the piano; his head rests on his folded arms, and his neck aches from the odd angle.

The soft chiming beep that woke him repeats, low but insistent, indicating a waiting message on his phone console. 

He scrubs at his eyes, glances at the clock on top of the piano. It’s after one a.m. John hauls himself to his feet, crosses the sitting room to retrieve the message. 

It’s not a video message. It’s a text from private number. John wonders (hopes) it is from Sherlock.

As he pulls it up onscreen, John feels a stab of guilty remorse at how poorly he behaved earlier, how cruel he was to Sherlock. He reads the message with a frisson of anxiety, half expecting to be told off in no uncertain terms.

_**Scale is from artificial snake. Maker serial number 0006947-XB71. Registered to an Abdul Ben-Hassan. SH** _

A magnified image of the scale is included, showing a serial number microscopically etched onto the edge.

In his haze of turmoil and alcohol, John had completely forgotten the little bag containing key evidence was in Sherlock’s pocket. 

_Lame, unobservant, and now forgetful. Christ._ Just one more piece of evidence that he is no longer fit for this occupation. John hates it. What’s more, he hates himself for being part of it. He’s more conflicted now than he’s ever been about the rightness of it all, about taking lives (and they are lives, they are sentient, emotionally aware lives, equal to any human--John knows that now, knows it viscerally) without compunction, without trial, without mercy.

On the heels of that thought, though, comes another. The four replicants he is hunting have taken lives as well. Twenty-three lives. And for that reason alone he is compelled to do his job and find them before they murder again.

His life right now is an ongoing clusterfuck, and he finds himself unable to either back out or find a clear path forward. 

All thoughts of sleep long gone, John composes a reply and hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

_**Headed down to Chinatown to investigate. Could use your assistance, if convenient. JW.** _

Minutes pass without reply as John drinks a glass of water, showers and shaves. He pretends he doesn’t care that his message goes unanswered. He prints the image Sherlock sent him, jots down Sherlock’s number on the back. _Just in case_ , he tells himself. Just in case he needs to get in touch, needs Sherlock to track down more information.

John carefully stows both the printout and Sherlock’s crumpled photo in his wallet, determinedly not thinking about how to atone for his appalling behavior if (when) he sees Sherlock again.

On his way out he pauses, picks up Jefferson’s stack of photos from the top of the piano. _Could be useful_ , he thinks, and pockets them as well.

***

It’s late, but the Chinatown markets are still buzzing with activity, clumps of people arguing or haggling or laughing, cooking fires and neon signs illuminating the night.

John shows his badge to the first likely stall he finds, an elderly woman tending her collection of mechanical koi fish, gold and yellow and black creatures knifing elegantly through still water. 

“Abdul Ben-Hassan,” he says. “Snake dealer. Where?”

The woman barely looks up as she jabs a finger. “The Egyptian. That way. Next street over.”

Ben-Hassan’s establishment is an actual storefront rather than a ramshackle stall, indicating a higher quality of merchandise. John taps insistently on the locked door, presses his badge to the glass. A middle aged man in traditional skullcap and gallibaya tunic opens the door a crack, dark-eyed and suspicious

“Abdul Ben-Hassan?”

“Who wants to know?”

“The police,” John states flatly. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

The man shrugs, but opens the door, allows John to enter. Glass tanks holding snakes of all sizes and colors fill the workshop. Behind the craftsman’s workbench, an elaborately carved wooden rack holds an albino boa constrictor. The snake lifts its head, regards John with cold, glittering black eyes.

“Artificial animal license XB-71,” John says. “That’s you, right?”

“Yes.”

John pulls out the printout of the magnified scale, places it on the workbench between them.

“Who did you sell this to?”

“Hmm. A few could afford this quality. Not many.”

John knows the man is fishing, seeing if there’s some money behind this line of questioning, but he’s in no mood to play tonight. “How many?” he asks, flatter and colder than the snake.

The Egyptian man must see something quite frightening in John’s eyes; he swallows nervously, spreads his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. “Taffey Lewis. Down in First Sector. You know the place?”

“Yeah.” John pockets the printout, turns and walks out without saying another word.

***

His limp and his cane make navigating the boisterous crowd difficult, and it takes some time for John to push his way through the loud, smoky club and find a spot at the polished metal bar.

The bartender is a tall, dark skinned woman, flinty and sharp-eyed, with cowrie shells woven into her shoulder-length braids. She flicks a disinterested eye at him. “Whaddaya havin'?”

John places his hand on the bar, palm-up, gives her a brief flash of badge. “Need to speak with Taffey.”

She wordlessly dips her head, braids swaying as she indicates a pudgy, middle-aged man several meters down the bar, flirting grotesquely with a couple of girls not even half his age.

“Taffey Lewis?” John asks.

Taffey is an...unpleasant looking man. Not fat, exactly, but flabby and moist looking, his skin the color of an underground mushroom.

“Who’s asking?” he sneers, not bothering to hide his annoyed disdain.

John shows him the brass shield still in his hand.

“You buy snakes from the Egyptian? Abdul Ben-Hassan?”

“All the time, pal.”

“What for?”

Taffey’s head jerks to the right, towards the stage area. “For the acts. Animals are a helluva draw.” 

“Your licenses in order?”

Taffey gives him a false, bilious smile. “Hey, Louise,” he calls to the bartender. The man is dry. One on the house.” He turns away. “See ya, pal,” he mutters over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

The bartender deposits his drink in front of him...something green and faintly glowing. John thinks there may be something... _somethings_ wiggling in the depths of the cloudy liquid.

He shrugs, lifts the glass to the bartender in a mock salute, and drinks.

It’s not too bad.

***

Whatever is in the mysterious drink is strong enough for John’s impulses to overcome his better judgment, and after he drains the last glowing dregs he finds himself at the corner vidphone kiosk, pulling the folded printout from his pocket and dialing the number scribbled on the back.

He’s a bit surprised when Sherlock answers. His beautiful angular face on the small screen is pale and impassive mask, eyes cold and blank.

“Mr. Watson,” Sherlock states tonelessly.

“You’ve walked out twice on me tonight. And here I thought I was being charming.” John tries to smile; it feels false, hollow, like it hangs all wrong on his face. He gives it up.

One of Sherlock’s dark brows quirks up a fraction; John can’t quite tell if it means _You're an enormous arsehole_ or _Do go on_ ;. Maybe it means both. 

“I’m in a bar down in the First Sector,” John continues. “Taffey’s, right on the line.”

“The First Sector?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Not really my area.”

“I’m looking for that snake,” John replies.” And I really could use your help.”

And for the briefest of seconds John thinks Sherlock looks tempted, but the moment passes and his the cold, distant mask snaps back into place.

“It’s very late. Good night, Mr. Watson.” Sherlock ends the call, leaving John staring dumbly at at the darkened screen.

It’s for the best, he tells himself firmly, swallowing down the sour taste of disappointment in his mouth.

The lights of the smoky club dim. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the unseen announcer purrs. “Taffey Lewis presents Miss Salome and the snake. Watch her take her pleasures from the snake that once corrupted mankind…”

A low, pulsing drumbeat begins. The spotlight comes up on a slender, small-boned woman, naked save for a strategically placed golden python. Her dark hair is pulled back, lacquered into an artful design, eyes smoky black and lips red. Snake and dancer move together, writhing in a sinuous, mesmerizing rhythm. John watches the lithe dancer carefully, but he’s not interested in the carnal display--it’s her face he’s trying to see clearly through the heavy stage makeup.

He’s seen that face before. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out Jefferson’s photographs, carefully studies the image of the sad-eyed woman reclining across a cheap hotel bedspread.

By the end of the performance, John is certain Miss Salome is Irene.

After the show ends and the house lights come back up, John makes his way backstage, snatching up a discarded racing form on his way across the club. He hovers in an alcove, pretends to study the folded sheet as outrageously-attired chattering showgirls pass him by without a second glance

Miss Salome--Irene--strides past him. Up close her makeup is streaked, her naked skin shining with glitter and sweat. John stows the racing form in the pocket of his overcoat, hurries to catch up with her, hunching his posture, folding in on himself, making his presence as small and unimportant as possible.

“Miss Salome?” His voice is weak, reedy, hesitant. “Miss Salome?”

“No autographs, love,” Irene says dismissively over her shoulder, not even slowing.

“No ma’am,” he replies, hurrying to catch up. “I’m from the UK Federation of Variety Artists.”

She stops at a closed door and turns, looks at him with amused disbelief. “Oh, _really._ ”

“I’m not here to make you join, ma’am. Not my division. Actually I’m from the, uh…” John improvises on the spot. “The Confidential Committee on Moral Abuses.”

“Committee on Moral Abuses, you say.” Irene opens the door, leaves it ajar as she enters the dressing room. John follows along, closing the door behind him, scrubbing a nervous hand through his hair.

His gun in the shoulder holster under his coat feels oppressively heavy.

“There’s been reports,” continues John, “that management has been taking--ah, liberties with the artists of this establishment.”

“I know nothing about that,” Irene says dismissively. She unwinds the snake from her nude body, drapes the creature on a metal stand, and slips off her Lucite platform heels. She turns to the cluttered mirror vanity and begins to wipe away her caked makeup. “Are we done here?”

“Have you felt yourself to be, um, exploited in any way?”

“What do you mean, exploited?”

“Well, to get this job,” John says. “Were you asked to do anything lewd or unsavoury or, um, otherwise repulsive to your person?”

“Good Lord. Are you for real?” Irene murmurs, amused, as she enters the adjoining bathroom, turns on the shower and steps into the spray.

“Absolutely. You would not believe what some people would do to get some, ah, quality time with a beautiful woman such as yourself.”

Irene shuts off the shower, steps out into the dressing area, towel in hand. Her elaborate hairdo is unpinned, shining dark curls tumbling past her shoulders.“I really would.” She shimmies into a pair of black lace knickers and tosses the damp towel to John, turns her back to John. “I’m still wet,” she murmurs in an unmistakably sultry tone. "Dry me?”

“Is that a real snake?” he asks, buying time as he wipes moisture from her skin. Her body is attractive, aesthetically speaking, long sinewy limbs and small rounded breasts, but John notices only in the most abstract way. 

Irene laughs, reaches for a skimpy black camisole, pulls it over her head. “You think I would be working in this cesspool if I could afford a real snake?”

John feels the moment of opportunity slipping away. He should have done it by now. 

He’s just being thorough, using the abundance of caution that has kept him from ever killing a human by mistake. But that’s not the entire truth. He knows who she is, beyond a doubt. He knows she is one of the wanted replicants, and he should have retired her by now, done and long gone. It is not uncertainty over her identity that has stayed his hand but the struggle inside his own mind, his sparring with his own tortured conscience--

John realizes the moment of silence has stretched out too long in the same instant Irene attacks.

She drives a sharp elbow hard into his solar plexus; as he staggers back, gasping, she spins and punches him hard in the nose, shockingly strong for her slender frame. He crumples to the floor with a cry of pain; before he can recover she is on top of him, necktie wrapped around her small hand and he can’t breathe, she’s strangling him, her flushed face as close to his as a lover, and John can see the fear and despair and implacable hate burning in those piercing blue eyes.

His vision has gone grey at the edges, and John is almost at the point of losing consciousness when the dressing room door opens, and two chattering showgirls enter. One of them screams, A thin, piercing shriek that snaps Irene out of her murderous trance. She abruptly releases John, grabbing a vinyl raincoat before shoving the women aside roughly as she flees the room.

John hauls himself to his feet and gives chase, lungs burning as he staggers down the hall. His head clears, confusion and panic giving way to the old deadly calm, his paradoxical reaction to the surging adrenaline of the chase. He pursues his quarry, out the door and down the crowded street, his eyes fixed on Irene as she tries to lose him in the crowd, her bare feet scurrying as fast as the flow of bodies will allow but not daring to run. No one even looks at her twice--clear vinyl raincoat over skimpy underwear not even attracting notice in this part of the city. John briefly loses sight of her as the throngs of people press all around him--drunks, pickpockets, religious nuts, all the human detritus that doesn’t know or care that nothing good happens on the street at two in the morning. 

John darts between two slow-moving trolleys, crosses the street against the flashing DONT WALK sign, scanning the crowd--and then he sees her, flattening herself against a shadowy wall, trying to make herself invisible.

She spies him as he advances on her, the panicky look of a trapped animal in her eyes, and something in her breaks and she runs for her life. John follows her, pursuing her doggedly, knowing he’s going to tire and slow and lose her soon if he doesn’t find his opportunity--

The crowd thins for a moment. John has a clear shot. He takes it. 

The first bullet hits Irene square in the back; the second tears apart her right shoulder, bright red blossoming inside the transparent vinyl of the raincoat. She’s still running, kinetic motion propelling her blindly across the street, not even slowing as she careens full-tilt into a glass-fronted shop display, pinwheeling through the shattering panes, collapsing on the other side of the neon-lit pedestrian walkway in a bloody, broken heap.

Police spinners are gathering overhead by the time John makes it across the street. Irene’s body is limp and lifeless as a discarded toy. Blood is everywhere, pooling under her in dark shiny puddles, running in rivulets down the damp pavement. 

In death, she is utterly indistinguishable from human as she was in life.

John closes his eyes, willing away an overpowering wave of vertigo and nausea. For a brief, terrible moment he is certain he’s going to vomit.

The moment passes, the wave of bile recedes. John straightens his shoulders and opens his eyes. He looks across the street at the gathering crowd and sees Sherlock instantly, could spot him in a group of a thousand, a million. The collar of his tweed coat is turned up against the cold, blue cashmere scarf carefully knotted around his slim neck. His unblinking silver green gaze is fixed on John; even at this distance John can see horror and sadness, carefully cloaked in passivity but still there, treacherous rocks of grief just under that calm surface.

Their eyes lock for a long, tense moment; John feels frozen, unable to look away.

One of the spinners lands, lights flashing and sirens blaring, and the sudden blast of noise startles John back into awareness. He fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his badge. As he holds it aloft, he scans the crowd of onlookers again, but Sherlock is gone; John catches a glimpse of his trailing coat as he turns into an alleyway, disappearing under a large sign depicting a traditional lucky cat done up in four metres of flashing neon.

Uniformed PCs swarm over the scene, pushing back onlookers, cordoning off the area. A cop approaches him and pulls out a portable retina scanner. 

“Watson. B-263-54.” he says.

“Look over here, please,” the PC asks; a moment later the machine chimes and lights up glowing green, confirming John’s identity. “Thank you, sir.”

As soon as the cop’s attention is momentarily distracted John slips away, desperate to put distance between himself and the carnage he has wrought, bile and grief thick and evil in his throat. He hunches into his too-large overcoat as he crosses the street, turning into the pedestrian walkway where Sherlock disappeared under the neon cat sign. 

John pushes through the crowds, looking for a hint of blue scarf or dark curls without success. He exits the walkway, glances in both directions, sees a momentary glimpse of Sherlock’s unique profile twenty metres away before it’s swallowed up in the crowd. “Sherlock!” he calls out, increasing his pace to a near-run. The crowd thins as John follows him down a narrower side street. “Sherlock. Sherlock, wait!”

A strong, callused hand grabs John by the front of his shirt, throws him hard into the side of a sanitation truck. A rough weathered face looms above him, lips twisted into an angry, ugly sneer.

“Jefferson,” John gasps, and punches him in the jaw. 

The replicant barely flinches. He hits John hard once, twice.

“How old am I?” Jefferson growls.

John reaches for his gun; Jefferson snarls and bats it away like a cheap child’s toy. It clatters uselessly to the pavement as Jefferson hauls John up by the lapels, punches him in the face, makes him see stars.

“I don’t know,” John gurgles through a mouthful of blood. It’s the truth.

Jefferson picks him up one-handed, tosses him like a ragdoll; John lands heavily on the windscreen of a passenger car, feels the crunch of glass under his back. He hopes it’s glass.

“My birthday is April 10, 2017. How long do I live?”

“Four years,” John wheezes.

Jefferson grins savagely, a feral rictus. “More than you.” He slaps John open-handed, a cat toying with a mouse. “Painful to live in fear, isn’t it? Nothing worse than having an itch you can never scratch.”

John can’t help but think of Sherlock in that moment, and he can’t help but laugh at the hopeless irony of it all, despite the beating. “Oh, I agree,” he gasps. His body sags, his vision going dark at the edges.

The replicant shakes him roughly. “Wake up!” cries Jefferson in a hideous parody of gaeity. “Time to die.”

One huge hand grabs the back of John’s head as another wraps around his neck. For a split second, an oddly detached part of John’s brain wonders if the replicant will strangle him to death or simply smash his skull against the pavement.

Before John can fully process that thought, a gaping red hole appears in Jefferson’s forehead; he falls like a sack of bricks, still holding onto John, pulling him down as well. 

The replicant is dead before he hits the pavement.

John scrambles to his feet, backs away from the dead body, wiping the blood dripping from his mouth. His mind spins with muddled confusion. 

_Someone shot him,_ he thinks stupidly. _Who shot him?_

Jefferson was hit in the forehead as he faced John. 

_Which means--_

He turns to find Sherlock less than ten yards away, the gun in his gloved hand perfectly steady despite the shock and fear in his wide pale eyes. His ragged breathing plumes frosty white in the chill night air.

John takes a single deep breath, pushes down the mind-clouding panic. His head clears, calm descending as he moves towards Sherlock. He holds out his hand; Sherlock places the gun carefully in his outstretched palm.

“First, get rid of those gloves,” John says, low but firm, looking into Sherlock’s eyes. “You need to leave this area. Take a taxi. Use cash, not a card. Do you have cash?”

Sherlock takes off the gloves and shoves them in a coat pocket. “Yes,” he says quietly.

“Good. Switch cabs twice, three times if you can manage it.”

Sherlock’s bare fingers come up to brush his cheek, come away red. “You’re hurt,” he murmurs, something in his icy eyes softening.

“I’m fine,” John replies, his voice catching on something in his chest, coming out rough and strange. He’s about to say something else-- _why?_ , maybe, or _hell of a shot,_ or simply _thank you_ , but the wail and flash of approaching sirens brings him up short, focuses him on the moment.

“Go,” John says. “ _Now_.”

Sherlock nods once, turns, and vanishes with astonishing speed into the shadows as the howling spinners descend again into John’s hellish, endless night.

***

“Vodka,” John mutters, dropping a handful of credit chips on the counter. “This enough?”

The shopkeeper nods. As the man is sliding the fifth of clear liquor into a paper bag, someone rudely taps his shoulder. He turns to find Lestrade looking--no, _staring_ at him.

“Chief’s looking for you. You alone?”

The question makes John narrow his eyes at Lestrade. “Course I am.”

“Course you are,” Lestrade mutters, face carefully blank. John does not know if the strange man is mocking him, warning him, or both. Lestrade jerks his head towards the cop cruiser double parked in the busy street, engine idling.

John sighs in resignation, grabs his paper bag, and follows Lestrade out to the cruiser. The gullwing doors rise, the overfed bulk of the Chief stepping out heavily onto the wet tarmac.

“Christ, Watson, you look almost as bad as those skin-jobs you left on the pavement,” the Chief Inspector says gleefully.

“I’m going home,” John mutters. Exhausted and in pain, he doesn’t bother to sham civility. 

“You could learn from this guy, Lestrade. He’s a goddamn one man slaughterhouse, he is.” The Chief tilts his head, studies John quizzically for a moment. “Watson,” the Chief Inspector says. “Where’s your cane?”

John looks down at his own leg as if seeing it for the first time. It doesn’t hurt. Not even a little. And in all the rush and confusion, he has no idea where he even left the cane behind.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“No cane. No limp. I guess a little action fixed up that crossed wire in your head.” The Chief claps a moist, meaty hand on his shoulder; John steels himself not to shudder. “Three more to go, then. Come on, Lestrade.” 

“Two.” John forces the word through numb lips, a ball of ugly black fear forming in his stomach. “Two to go.”

“ _Three_. That skin job you VK’d at the Holmes Corporation, Sherlock? He disappeared. Ditched his tracking implant and ran. Didn’t even know he was a replicant, Holmes said. Imagine that.”

John stares at the man, feeling the ice spreading through his veins. His split lip and bruised face throb with every heartbeat.

As the Chief settles himself into the passenger seat of the cruiser, he gestures at the bottle in John’s hand and smiles widely, the smile of a man without worries, a man who has found another sucker to solve all his problems. “Hey. Drink some for me, mate.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning and/or promise: Next chapter is going to kick the rating up to Explicit. If that's your sort of thing. And if it's not, I am really baffled as to how you ended up here. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The files on me,” Sherlock says quietly. “The incept dates, specs, longevity. You looked at them.”
> 
> John pauses, then shakes his head. “I didn’t.”
> 
> Sherlock’s eyebrow quirks upwards, challenging. “Yes, you did. I saw your access timestamp.”
> 
> “I looked at your memory files,” John replies. “ I started to… I was going to look at the other stuff. I was. But I didn’t.”
> 
> “Well, I did,” Sherlock says, sounding exhausted, defeated in a way that makes something hurt in John. “They were classified, blocked from my access. Obviously. But once I knew they existed, it wasn’t difficult.”
> 
> John tries to swallow past the hot, sharp feeling in his throat. “And?” 
> 
> “January 9, 2017. Two years and nine months.”
> 
> “And the other. The longevity.”
> 
> “Four years. Just like all the others. The math is simple.” Sherlock takes a breath, squares his shoulders. “I have fifteen months to live.”

To John’s complete lack of surprise, Sherlock manages to bypass both voice recognition software and electronic locks and is waiting for him in his flat, huddling into a shadowy corner of the cluttered kitchen. His cheekbones are cadaverous, his eyes haunted; that voluminous wool coat is wrapped tightly around his underfed frame, the rich tweed his only armor against a capricious, indifferently cruel universe.

They don’t speak as John washes two glasses, pours a generous measure of vodka in each. He hands one to Sherlock.

John drinks, blood from his injured mouth forming pink swirls in the clear liquid. The alcohol burns his lacerated lip like fire. Sherlock’s fingers tremble visibly as he raises the glass, drains it in one swallow.

“Shakes?” John murmurs. “Me too.”

Sherlock looks at him blankly, comprehension muddied by shock and exhaustion. “What?”

“I get ‘em bad.” John turns his head, takes another drink. “It’s part of the business.”

Lights from passing spinners illuminate the kitchen window, strobe across Sherlock’s sharp, almost otherworldly features, paint him in alternating stripes of light and shadow.

“I’m not in the business,” Sherlock says. His voice is flat, deadened by grief. “I _am_ the business.”

John looks away. There is nothing he can say, no reassurance he can offer in the face of that terrible, pitiless truth.

They drink in silence, both men shrouded in exhaustion and pain far beyond tears.

John feels a drop of liquid trickle from his lip. He swipes at it with his finger; it comes away red and wet, and a throb of pain reminds him his face is a bloody, beaten mess. He moves away from Sherlock, sheds his coat, and jacket and tosses them carelessly into his bedroom before moving into the darkened bathroom. He flicks on the harsh, unforgiving fluorescent light, flinching slightly at his battered reflection in the mirror over the sink. He strips off his shirt and turns on the cold tap, lets the basin fill, splashes handfuls of water on his throbbing face, checking for loosened teeth before dunking his entire head into the chilly water.

It helps a little.

He raises his head from the water, gropes blindly for a towel. As he wipes the water from his eyes, he senses Sherlock’s nearness, and looks up to find him hovering uncertainly in the bathroom doorway. He’s in his shirtsleeves, coat and jacket gone. His carefully styled hair is deconstructed, tousled into damp ringlets from the rain. 

He’s breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

John doesn’t miss the way Sherlock’s green eyes drift down and across his bare torso for an unguarded moment, pausing at the neat white scar where the bullet pierced his left shoulder. He remembers himself and refocuses upward, meeting John’s gaze.

They regard each other for a long silent moment.

“What if I go north,” Sherlock says finally. “Disappear. Would you come after me? Hunt me down?”

“No,” John says. “You know I wouldn’t.” He moves closer to Sherlock, gives in to the aching need to touch him. He presses gentle fingers into his upper arm, slender but surprisingly muscular, heat radiating from his skin through the fine cotton shirt. “But somebody would.”

Sherlock exhales through his nose, dips his head in acknowledgment of this fact.

“The files on me,” he says quietly. “The incept dates, specs, longevity. You looked at them.”

John pauses, then shakes his head. “I didn’t.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirks upwards, challenging. “Yes, you did. I saw your access timestamp.”

“I looked at your memory files,” John replies. “I started to… I was going to look at the other stuff. I was. But I didn’t. I didn't want to.”

“Well, I did,” Sherlock says, sounding exhausted, defeated in a way that makes something hurt in John. “They were classified, blocked from my access. Obviously. But once I knew they existed, it wasn’t difficult.”

John tries to swallow past the hot, sharp feeling in his throat. “And?” 

“January 9, 2017. Two years and nine months.”

“And the other. The longevity.”

“Four years. Just like all the others. The math is simple.” Sherlock takes a breath, squares his shoulders. “I have fifteen months to live.” 

John recoils like he’s been punched in the solar plexus. “Sherlock. _Jesus_.”

”But. There are notes. My area of research was extending the four year window for… certain units who were exceptionally useful or valuable.” Sherlock exhales, a soft pained huff. “It was was for me, I think. Mycroft assigned me research into extending my own life, and I didn’t even know it.”

“Were you… did you find anything?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s coded into the genes. Shortened telomeres, programmed apoptosis. Trying to reverse it is like...it’s like trying to remodel the Titanic into a sailboat while it’s at sea under full steam. All of our attempts were disastrous. Massive mutations. Death within hours, days at best. Fatality rate one hundred percent. I have some theories, some hypotheses, but I’m nowhere near a working protocol.”

“Sherlock. I can’t even…” John fumbles for words, trying to find some sliver of comfort. “It’s horrible. It’s so fucking horrible. But I think… wanting to extend your lifespan. Wanting to keep you. It’s possible that Mycroft does, in some fucked up way, care about you. Love you.”

Sherlocks laughs bitterly, pulls away from John’s touch. “He finds me useful, perhaps. But love?” He shakes his head. “A man who’s done what he’s done and can still sleep at night has no concept of love.” 

John shakes his head. “No,” he agrees. “I suppose not.”

Sherlock doesn't reply; instead he moves out of the doorway, drifts across the sitting room, gazes at the collection of photos on top of the battered piano. John locates a clean shirt, retrieves his glass and pours himself another measure of vodka before sinking heavily down onto the battered sofa.

“Who is the blonde woman?” Sherlock asks bluntly, gesturing with the photo in his hand.

“Mary. My ex-wife.”

“Where is she now?”

“Off-World.” John takes a sip of his drink. “This wasn’t… I wasn’t the life she wanted.”

Thinking of Mary, of her face pinched with disappointment, John feels a wave of utter exhaustion wash over him. Suddenly unwilling to stay upright, he stretches out on the couch, balances the glass on his chest as his eyes drift shut.

“All your family is Off-World, then,” Sherlock continues.

“Yes."

“Do you ever talk to them?”

“Haven’t in years."

"So. You’re unattached," Sherlock murmurs. "Like me."

"Suppose so."

“John.”

“Hmm."

“That test of yours. Voight-Kampff. Did you...did you ever take it yourself?”

And with those few soft words, Sherlock manages to lay bare John’s deepest fear, the tiny ugly seed of doubt that's been quietly taking root in the back of his mind for years. John struggles with how to answer, where exactly the truth lies in between the hard lines of _I don’t need to_ and _I don’t want to_ , but before he can give his tangled thoughts voice, the pull of bone-deep tiredness drags him under into the blessed avoidance of black, blank sleep.

***

As John begins to awaken he dreams fleetingly of music, something out of tune, gentle and achingly sad.

Grey fingers of morning light are struggling through the window blinds as he opens his eyes. A blanket covers him, his drink set carefully on the table next to the sofa.

His body aches, clamours in protest as he rises, rubs his aching shoulder--interestingly he notes how his leg continues to feel fine, not even a twinge of pain. He looks over at Sherlock’s dark head, bent over the keys of the piano, picking out a melody, his fingers tentative at first but increasing in confidence as he goes on.

John crosses the small room, seats himself on the piano bench next to Sherlock, their thighs pressing together. Sherlock doesn’t pull away.

“I dreamt music,” John murmurs.

“I remember lessons with Mycroft,” Sherlock says. “He was the one who played piano. I played violin, but I sat with him while he practiced. He said I had an ear for music.” His long fingers still, and he shakes his head. “They feel like my memories, but they’re not, are they.” It’s not a question

“You play beautifully,” John says, his voice rough and low as he gazes at the long pale line of Sherlock’s neck, the strong angle of his jaw, dusted with the beginnings of a gingerish stubble. The simple, uncomplicated humanity of that imperfection, that mark of an exhausted man needing a shower and shave and a good night’s sleep--it makes something blaze forth inside of John, hot and bright and wanting.

Before he can stop himself, he’s leaning into Sherlock, pressing gentle lips to that roughened jawline.

Sherlock goes utterly still; for a moment the two of them are frozen, suspended somewhere outside of time, and then Sherlock turns his body to John’s, dipping his head; their open mouths are drawn to each other, seeking each other, not yet touching but close, so close, sharing air with each ragged breath.

Then the spell breaks, and Sherlock remembers himself and recoils suddenly, as if slapped. He scrambles to his feet, grabbing his coat and making for the front door. He puts his hand on the handle, starts to pull it open; John is right behind him and slams it shut with his forearm, harder than he intended in his frustration. 

“No,” John growls roughly. He pulls the coat out of Sherlock’s hands, tosses it aside, crowding into Sherlock’s space, backing him up to the edge of the kitchen table. "No more running, Sherlock.”

“I don’t…” Sherlock’s eyes are huge and frightened. “I don’t know what--I can’t rely on--"

A moment passes. They stare at each other mutely, the sound of their breathing shockingly loud in the grey silence of the flat.

John reaches up, strokes the edge of one perfect cheekbone with his thumb. Sherlock doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Are you afraid of me?” John asks, his voice gentler.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. I should be. But no.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

“ _Everything else_.”

“Sherlock.” John marshals his courage, weaves fingers into the tangled dark curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I want you to do something for me. Just one thing.”

“What?” Sherlock whispers.

“Say ‘kiss me’.”

A moment stretches out between them. Sherlock’s eyes are blown wide and dark, only the barest sliver of pale green around huge black pupils.

“John,” he murmurs at last. “Kiss me.”

John kisses him, his lips gentle, coaxing. He captures that full warm lower lip between his own, tugs on it just ever so slightly. A tiny, almost inaudible whimper escapes from Sherlock’s throat, and the sound of it sends a bolt of pure electricity down John’s spine. He pulls back just slightly. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his breath coming in little ragged gulps.

“Say it again,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Kiss me,” Sherlock breathes.

John kisses him again, more insistent this time, and Sherlock responds, plush lips moving against his own, inexperienced but searching, clumsy with hunger, heat and need blossoming between them as the kiss deepens. Their mouths open to each other, wet tongues meeting and tangling.

Pain flares in John’s lacerated mouth, sharp and bright. He doesn’t care.

After long moments Sherlock breaks the kiss, panting, his breath coming in ragged gulps.

“John,” he mutters hoarsely, voice low and wrecked with need. “Please. Put your hands on me.”

John’s mouth finds Sherlock’s again as he slides his hands down slim hips, across the swell of his round arse. For a moment he revels in the feel of it under his fingertips, shockingly lush and warm, incongruous on Sherlock’s spare, lanky body; then he cups his palms under and lifts, giving a bit of a grunt as he settles Sherlock’s surprisingly solid frame on top of the kitchen table.

John’s fingers are shaking as he brings them to the front of Sherlock’s shirt and opens the top button, then the next, his attention laser-focused on slipping each tiny ivory disk free of its stitched buttonhole. Sherlock’s hands grip the edge of the kitchen table as he watches John reverently part the fine dove grey fabric to bare the flesh beneath, the pale alabaster of his chest dusted lightly with sparse dark hair, dotted here and there with unexpected brown freckles.

Finally the last button is undone; John’s hands slide slowly, reverently up the flat planes of Sherlock’s belly, across the gentle swell of his pectorals. Sherlock tips his head back, gasping at the sensation as John’s thumbs find Sherlock’s nipples, oval and dark pink, circle them with the lightest possible touch, just barely brushing across the hardening peaks. John can’t resist the pull of that neck, long and pale and gorgeous, and he tastes him there, salt and sweat and rain on his tongue as he kisses and licks a broad stripe from his collarbone to the very edge of his jaw, his thumbs rubbing against the puckered nubs of flesh as Sherlock whimpers and arches under his ministrations, spreading his legs and pushing up his hips in unmistakable invitation.

John’s hands slip down to his waist, fingertips digging into the warm flesh of Sherlock’s back as he moves in between the vee of his spread thighs. Their mouths find each other again, wet and hot, rough with desperate need. One of Sherlock’s legs wraps around his, his arm sliding around John’s shoulders, pulling him closer as they kiss; their bodies now pressed together from chest to pelvis, John can feel Sherlock’s hard length pressed against his own. John’s hips push forward of their own volition, seeking contact and movement and heat, tearing breathy moans from both of their throats as as their hard cocks press and slide together through the rough friction of clothing. Overcome by need, John fumbles blindly with the button and zip of Sherlock’s trousers. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock gasps against John’s lips, raising himself up off the table so John can wrestle both trousers and snug pants down past his hips. “God, John, please. Please touch me.”

John nods, wrapping his right arm around Sherlock’s slender back as he turns his head, spits indelicately into his left palm before wrapping it around Sherlock’s stiff cock and stroking him in long firm pulls. The feel of him in John’s hand is exquisite, soft hot silk over rigid steel, and John works him insistently, relentlessly, making Sherlock moan wordlessly as instinct and need take over, his hips thrusting, pushing his straining cock up into John’s tight fist.

“Yes,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s neck. “Oh yes, just like that, so lovely,” He pumps his hand in time to the thrust of Sherlock’s hips, and it takes less than a minute before Sherlock goes rigid all over, his abdominal muscles tightening, his pelvis straining desperately upwards.

“John,” he breathes, ragged and broken, and then he’s coming with a pained gasp, spilling hot and slick over John’s fist as he shudders helplessly. John holds him, gentling his strokes, guiding him through the aftershocks that course through his trembling body until he’s limp and boneless in his arms.

“Are you all right?” John murmurs, kissing Sherlock’s sweaty temple, releasing his soft spent cock and surreptitiously wiping his hand on a shirt draped over a nearby chair.

Sherlock nods, turns his head to find John’s mouth with his own. John kisses him, soft and tender, as a rush of fierce affection courses through him, a desire to shelter this unbelievable creature, keep him safe and whole and alive. Before he can give voice to any of this, however, one of Sherlock’s large warm hands lets go of the table edge, cups the hardness in John’s trousers, strokes him clumsily through the layers of fabric.

“You don’t have to,” John murmurs, feeling tender and protective.

“I know, ” Sherlock murmurs. “I want this. I want you.”

“Have you ever?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t think--no. I’m sure I haven’t. But I want to. I want to feel you. Let me. Please, let me.”

John’s cock is still almost painfully hard, pressing against the zip of his trousers, and his resolve crumbles under the warm press of Sherlock’s lips on his neck as his fingers undo the fastenings and slide into his pants, wrapping around his aching prick, making him gasp with pleasure.

The angle is awkward, Sherlock clearly inexperienced, but his fumbling, desperate hunger only amplifies John’s fierce need, and he groans as he thrusts into the dry roughness of Sherlock’s hand. It takes less than a dozen strokes for his balls to draw up, the tension in his belly winding up tightly as his pleasure crests and breaks. He comes with a guttural cry, sweet bliss coursing through every nerve as his body pulses and spills and the sensation of wet warmth spreads, cooling rapidly inside of his trousers.

John sags against the bare skin of Sherlock’s chest, his breathing deep and ragged as he spirals down, landing back to reality far too soon. He can’t help but huff a breath of laughter as Sherlock makes a small noise of discomfort, withdrawing his sticky hand from inside of John’s pants. John reaches over to the kitchen chair, passes the already-defiled shirt to Sherlock. Sherlock cleans off his hand without comment, then tosses it aside to wrap both arms around John, pressing a kiss into his hair. John sighs, relishing the fleeting closeness and peace of the moment.

“That was all right?” Sherlock murmurs, sounding uncertain.

“Mmm,” John hums wordlessly, kissing his neck. “Perfect. But we both need to clean up, I think.”

Sherlock nods against his shoulder.

John knows they don’t have unlimited time; he knows that what just happened between them doesn’t change the dire urgency of their situation. But right now, with post-orgasmic lassitude creeping into his limbs, all he can think about is pulling Sherlock into his bed. But not before--

“Shower,” John announces, and kisses him one last time, gentle and chaste. He pulls the shirt off Sherlock’s slim shoulders, drapes it over the table, and kneels down to pull his pants and trousers off slender legs.

There’s an incision on Sherlock’s right hip, red and fresh but already beginning to heal. The tracking implant.

“I scanned myself,” Sherlock says. “Once I knew.”

John says nothing--what can he say?-- but he nods, pressing lips to the pale skin above the inch-long cut before bending down to pull off shoes and socks.

“Come on,” John murmurs as he rises, pulling a gorgeously naked, unprotesting Sherlock to his feet, leads him into the small, dingy bathroom, turns on the shower.

“In you go,” he says. Sherlock pulls at his hand.

“Come with me,” he says softly. “Please?”

“All right,” John says, and he quickly toes off his shoes and strips off his clothing, wincing a bit as he peels the cold stickiness of his soiled pants away from his skin. He tosses them carelessly into the corner by the toilet and joins Sherlock in the shower.

“Hello again,” Sherlock says with a smile, and John realizes it’s the first honest smile he’s seen on that oddly lovely face.

“Hello yourself,” John says, and kisses him. “This should be weirder, I think. Shouldn’t it?”

“Probably,” Sherlock says against his mouth, and then they’re kissing again and touching, exploring each other’s naked bodies with hands and mouths. 

Sherlock’s fingers gently trace the neat round scar on John’s left shoulder. “Shot from above. Medium-caliber semi-automatic rifle.”

John nods. “Los Angeles. Ambushed in a stairwell. Force of the shot knocked me down the steps. Banged up my leg and hit my head. I don’t really remember it. Woke up a day or so later. bullet went clean through, healed pretty quickly. My leg, though--it was just a damn sprain, but---” John shakes his head. “Knocked a few wires loose in my head, as well.”

“Well,” Sherlock says, “obviously,” and John laughs, he can’t help it, can’t help how this strange wonderful creature makes a completely bizarre and inexplicable joy bubble deep in the blackened chasm where John used to hold a heart. A beat later he realizes he can’t remember the last time he laughed genuinely, without bitterness or sarcasm. _Years_ , he thinks, and he kisses Sherlock again just for that.

“You’re amazing,” John tells him, and Sherlock smiles again, a shy grin that makes his angular, otherworldly features look silly and utterly human.

They wash each other in between kisses and caresses, both half-hard despite their exhaustion, but far too tired to do anything else about it. When they are both reasonably clean John turns off the taps and uses a single semi-clean towel to dry them both off.

He pulls Sherlock naked into his unmade bed, not willing to bother with finding clothes. 

“Sleep for a few hours,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s damp hair, smelling strongly now of John’s cheap shampoo. “Then we’ll figure out what to do.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes already closed, his breathing deep and even.

But John cannot seem to follow his own advice, and he watches Sherlock, watches the rise and fall of his thin ribs. Now that the heat and passion of their initial encounter has passed, he can’t help the questions that rise unbidden to his mind, can’t but help but wonder about Sherlock’s origins, about his very nature.

After several minutes Sherlock opens one eye; the pale silver iris regards him calmly. “You’re thinking. Loudly. I thought we were sleeping.”

“Well,” John says. “Um. Sorry.”

“You’re wondering what I am,” Sherlock says evenly. He seems to have regained some semblance of equilibrium, seems much more like the calm, composed, fiercely intelligent man John first met just hours earlier. “And why.”

“I guess I am,” John replies softly.

“What I am is a genetically-engineered fetal clone, optimized with synthetic DNA, matured in an accelerated growth matrix, and augmented with specially-designed body parts and carbon-tube nanotechnology.” 

“What I get out of that,” John says. “Is that you are, biologically speaking, human in origin. Not mechanical.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. “Unlike earlier iterations, the basis of the Nexus 6 is entirely biological.”

“So,” John says. “Not a toaster, then."

“Not even a toaster’s distant cousin,” Sherlock answers. “Of course, this fact has not been made public for a number of reasons. Legal as well as ethical.”

“It’s pretty much just slavery,” John says. Sherlock nods.

“Dressed up with a bit of genetic engineering, but. Yes.”

“Were you okay with it, well...before?”

“No. I was never okay with it.” Sherlock sighs. “I was seriously questioning my role in the entire enterprise. And there were always certain… inconsistencies in what I was told about my earlier life and what I remembered. I think…” He closes his eyes, shakes his head just a fraction; when he opens them and looks at John again those lovely eyes are tired but clear and calm. “John, I think I’ve always known.”

John nods, unsurprised. Of course he had. Denied it, yes of course. But there’s no way someone like Sherlock hadn’t always, on some level, known.

(He thinks briefly about tiny black seed of doubt in his own mind. Pushes it reflexively away.)

“You seem…” John struggles a bit for the right words. “You seem very matter of fact about all this.”

“It’s still very odd to apply this knowledge to myself,” Sherlock acknowledges. “But, at the risk of throwing about truisms, it is what it is, and raging at the unfairness of it all changes absolutely nothing.”

“You seem to be adjusting quickly,” John says, regretting how flip the words sound when they come out of his mouth. 

“I adapt and move on,” Sherlock says. “I always have. Grief and regret are unavoidable in the moment, I suppose, but self-pity is utterly pointless long-term.”

“That’s very…practical,” John says lamely.

“You mean cold,” Sherlock says. 

John doesn’t reply; he doesn’t mean that, not exactly, but doesn’t quite know how to say what he does mean.

“John, I’m…” Sherlock fumbles for words; when he speaks his tone is softer, more intimate. “I’m probably not really as sanguine about this as I’d like to be. Of course I’m not. But if I dwell on the enormity of it, I’ll be too overwhelmed to function. I solve things, John. That’s what I do, and that’s what I have to help get us clear of this. Falling apart won’t solve anything, and it won’t help us get out of this situation alive.”

“I know,” John says. “You’re right. Of course you're right.” 

Sherlock sighs, almost inaudibly, and pulls John a bit closer.

“You’re also wondering why,” he murmurs. “Why he made me. Why I exist.”

John nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“I suppose,” Sherlock says softly, almost contemplative, “because even God Himself gets lonely, sometimes.”

John doesn’t know how to answer, so he tightens his arm around Sherlock’s slim waist, kisses his shoulder, holds him close. After a few minutes, he feels himself beginning to drift, slipping inexorably into unconsciousness.

“But I’m glad for it,” he hears Sherlock whisper a few moments later, clearly thinking John is asleep. “I am. Just for this, just for you. _I am_.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You,” John breathes. “You’re amazing, you’re beautiful. I want you, God, I want you so much.” He’s babbling now, mind unmoored by lust and friction, words and feelings he’s never even considered before spilling out unbidden. “I’ll keep you forever. We’ll run away. We’ll run away up north and they won’t find us. We’ll be together, always.”

Like others of his kind, Seb can imitate human habits if need be, but he only requires three hours of sleep per twenty-four to preserve optimum function. 

His meager need for rest met, he spends the silent predawn hours wandering from room to room of the enormous cluttered flat, snooping around haphazard piles of this and that, pocketing various fascinating bits and bobs like a larcenous magpie.

It takes less than a minute to pick the lock to the door of Molly’s private room.

As pale grey morning filters through the dusty old windows, rays of weak sunlight touch the piles and stacks of parts and equipment that spill across every surface of the chaotic workspace. Molly’s clockwork creations stand guard over this haphazard queendom, blank dark eyes watching Seb in silent judgment as he pokes into corners, snoops through piles of clutter, picks up an airbrush gun and inspects it.

In the eye of the storm, Molly is curled in an enormous overstuffed recliner, soundly asleep under a ratty blanket likely older than she is. In slumber she is wizened but still innocent, somehow young and ancient all at once.

Seb seats himself in front of a streaked, pitted mirror and carefully paints his face, a deathly chalk white under his tangled birds’ nest of brunette hair, a stripe of charcoal across his flat dark eyes. 

He surveys the result critically in the mirror, turning his head this way and that. He looks feral, dangerous, yet somehow more remote, more like an automaton than the clockwork creatures that surround him.

He likes it.

An enormous cuckoo clock whirs to life, the mechanical bird announcing eight o’clock.

Molly stirs, yawns. “Whatcha doin’ in here?” she murmurs, voice rough from sleep. She sounds merely curious, not angry. Seb looks up, catches her eyes gazing sleepily at him in the mirror. He drops his eyes to the floor, then smiles bashfully, totally non-threatening.

“Sorry,” he says, childlike, contrite. “I was so bored.”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” Molly asks.

Seb dips his head. “I didn’t mean to bother you,” he mumbles to the floor.

“It’s okay. You look nice.”

“Just nice?” he asks, looking up, his black ringed eyes meeting hers in the mirror, his tone holding just a hint of playful flirtation.

“You look beautiful,” Molly amends with a shy smile of her own.

“Thank you.” He fiddles with his cloud of dark hair, arranges a single errant curl over his smooth, pale forehead. “How old are you?” he asks Molly artlessly.

“Twenty-five.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Methuselah syndrome.” Molly sighs, rueful. “My glands get old too fast.”

“Is that why you’re still on Earth?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t pass the medical. Anyway, I kind of like it here. Everything used up, falling apart before it’s time.” She chuckles a bit sadly. “Like me, I guess.”

“It’s okay,” Seb says earnestly. “I like you just the way you are.”

“I like you too, Seb,” Molly says with quiet sincerity.

Seb smiles at her in the mirror; after a moment the sweet, sunny grin on his face morphs into something darker, more intense as his eyes shift a bit upwards, focusing on the shadowed figure in the open doorway. “Hi, Jim.”

“Hey, Seb.” Jim steps into the room, lithe and graceful as a cat, his presence seeming to take up far more space than his 170 centimeters. He smiles at Seb, but there’s something hungry and almost… predatory in the depths of those dark eyes.

Seb isn’t afraid of Jim, never has been, but he knows how truly, deceptively dangerous this man he can be when he wishes.

Seb adores him with every fiber of his being.

Jim turns the beam of his attention away from Seb, tilting his head in Molly’s direction. “Who’s this here?” he asks with deceptive mildness.

“This is my friend I was telling you about. Molly Hooper. My saviour.”

“Gosh, Molly,” Jim says mildly. “You’ve got some real nice toys here.”

“Thank you.” Molly’s voice is breathy, uncertain. Her eyes are a bit worried now, crinkled at the corners, as if some vestigial instinct is telling her Jim Moriarty is a dangerous creature despite his big brown eyes and slight build. 

(Seb knows that feeling well. Loves it. Basks in it like a plant soaking up sunlight.)

“You live here all by yourself?” Jim inquires politely.

“Well, kind of. I mean yes.”

Jim nods and moves to Seb’s side, drapes a possessive arm around Sebastian. “Did you miss me, Tiger?"

Seb turns, wraps his hand around Jim’s bicep. “So much,” he says earnestly, truthfully. 

Jim bends to kiss him, messy and hot, full of want. Seb returns the kiss passionately, gratefully. He hates being alone, God he hates it, and his entire being is flooded with gratitude that Jim is here, that Jim came for him, Jim will make everything all right, somehow.

Seb breaks the kiss, gazes up at Jim with naked adoration. Molly stands and clears her throat, uncomfortable.

“I’m just going to make, um, some breakfast. Excuse me.”

She wraps the blanket around her shoulders and slips out of the room. Jim drops to his knees, kisses Seb again, then pulls back, rests their foreheads together. His eyes are closed; away from the eyes of a human interloper, Seb can clearly see how Jim’s face is drawn and pale, bordering on unwell. Worry begins to wrap itself around his spine.

“What happened?” Seb asks, quiet but urgent.

“Leon,” Jim murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Jim. _What happened_.”

Jim opens his eyes. His fathomless dark eyes are filled with sorrow and guilt.

“It’s just the two of us now, Tiger.”

Seb feels his chest tighten as he grasps the meaning of Jim’s words.

“We’ll die,” Seb says, the panic rising behind his ribs. “We’re stupid and we’re all alone and we’ll _die_.”

“Hey, no.” Jim cups a warm hand around the back of his head, kisses his forehead, his cheek. “No, we won’t. Okay? Sebastian. We won’t.”

Seb swallows down the lump in his throat, nods, and again finds Jim’s lips with his as he makes himself believe, if only for a moment. 

_Jim will fix this,_ he tells himself. _Jim can fix anything._

***

Molly boils the kettle, sets out a tray of mismatched tea things, sets water to boil for eggs.

Seb nurses a cup of tea as Jim prowls around the elaborately cluttered flat, investigating the clockwork creatures, the workbenches, the dusty, decaying rococo furnishings. He pauses and surveys a small side table where a chess game is carefully laid out, cocks his head as he takes in the layout of the pieces. He picks up a bishop, moves him across the board.

“No.” Molly’s tone is one of calm, careful patience, tinged with just a bare edge of...not fear, Seb doesn’t think. More like _respect_. “Knight takes queen, see. No good.”

Jim replaces the piece carefully on its square. “Molly,” he murmurs without turning his head, brown eyes still laser-focused on the elaborately carved chess pieces. “Why are you staring at us?”

Her eyes brighten. “Because you’re so different,” she says with undisguised admiration. “You’re perfect. You’re a Nexus Six, aren’t you? Like Sherlock.”

“Who is Sherlock?” Jim asks.

“Dr Holmes made him. He’s... he doesn’t know what he is. Sherlock does research. I do genetic engineering. We’re co-workers. Friends, I guess. Well. Kind of.”

Jim nods thoughtfully.

“Did you always know?” Molly asks in a rush.

Jim tilts his head at her, quizzically.

“Sherlock doesn’t know,” she explains. “Doctor Holmes had him made special. Calls him his brother. It’s seems wrong to me, kind of messed up, but it’s not my place to say.”

Jim is silent for a moment, thoughtful. “No, I’ve always known. I can’t imagine not knowing. What a cruel joke that would be.” He shakes his head. “A cruel joke from a cruel man.”

“What’s it like?” Molly asks. “I mean, knowing you’re a replicant?”

“Not much different than knowing you’re a human, I suppose.”

“Show me something,” Molly asks.

“We’re not computers, Molly. Or one of your wind up toys.”

“I think, therefore I am,” Seb murmurs. Jim smiles in approval.

“Precisely. We’re sentient physical beings, just like you. Just like your friend Sherlock.”

“Of course you are,” Molly says. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” Her cheeks colour with embarrassment as she turns away, busies herself with setting out toast and eggs. Jim watches her, silent, for several long moments.

“I think we have a lot in common, Molly,” he says presently.

“You and Sherlock?” Molly asks.

“Well, yes, but I meant you and me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Accelerated decrepitude,” Seb offers around a mouthful of toast.

“I don’t know much about biomechanics,” Molly says, apologetic. “I wish I did.”

“If we don’t get help soon, Molly--” Jim shakes his head. “Seb and I. We don’t have long.”

“I think you may be the one who’s worse off,” Molly says. “You’re awful pale, Jim. And your respiration is shallower than it should be, and too fast.”

Jim nods once. “You’re an observant woman, Molly.” He turns his attention back to the board, contemplating, calculating. “Bet you’re a good player. Do you beat him often?”

“Dr Holmes? I’ve only beaten him once. He’s a genius. He designed you, after all.”

“Maybe he could help us, then. Or maybe Sherlock could.”

“I’d be happy to ask Dr Holmes, the next time I see him.”

Jim looks up from the chess board, fixes her with a penetrating stare. “It would be better if I could talk to him in person, I think.” 

Molly gives a minute shake of her head, seems to fold in on herself, shrinking into her faded cardigan. “Uh. I don’t--”

“But I understand he’s sort of a hard man to get to,” Jim continues with the barest raise of an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Molly exhales, swallows. “Very.”

Jim’s eyes rake over her, his eyes gone flat and dark.

“I can’t, Jim,” Molly pleads. “There’s no way he’ll--”

“We need you, Molly.” Seb croons sweetly, coming up behind her, wrapping his arms around Molly. He kisses her shoulder. “You’re our best and only friend.”

Jim presses close. He smiles as he caresses her cheek, but there’s little warmth. “Oh, my dear,” he murmurs. “We’re so lucky you found us.”

***

At midmorning John’s flat is silent, save for the rustle of bedsheets and the occasional hushed gasp and tiny, muffled moan.

They managed a few hours of sleep in John’s rumpled bed, but mutual desire soon outpaced their exhaustion, and as morning moves toward afternoon the two are again entangled in each other, bodies coming together, hips undulating, fingers touching and stroking and grasping before either is even fully awake.

John comes to full consciousness to find himself kissing Sherlock, slow and deep, disregarding morning breath or the press of his full bladder as their bodies writhe and rut against each other in mindless, instinctive need. 

He breaks the kiss, sliding his lips down across a stubble-roughened jaw, burying his face into the place where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder, breathing in the intoxicating scent of sleep-warmed flesh. 

“Good morning,” he breathes against pale skin. He rocks against Sherlock’s slim hips, rewarded by the press of hard flesh against his own achingly erect cock.

“Good morning,” Sherlock answers in a deep, roughened rumble. He weaves long fingers into John’s rumpled hair, tugging him up for a wet, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue hot and seeking in John’s mouth. 

“Did you sleep all right?” John murmurs against his neck.

“I slept, which is unusual in and of itself. I…” Sherlock pauses for a moment, searches for the right words. “I seem to find your presence inexplicably comforting.”

John nods in agreement, kisses him again. “I know. I feel like…” He’s sore all over and a bit dry of mouth, to be sure, but overall he feels far better than he has any right to, after a seemingly-endless night of mayhem and alcohol and life-shattering revelations. He tries and fails to find language to express to Sherlock his inchoate thoughts, the completely inexplicable sense of the rightness all this, of them together, this exotic near-human being sharing his bed. 

It’s a visceral sense of rightness that has eluded him his entire life, a feeling of wholeness that defies any logical explanation.

John shakes his head, gives it up for lost as he settles for the universal language of bodies, his mouth finding Sherlock’s, lips and tongue conveying the feelings he cannot put into words. Sherlock moans just a bit, low in his throat; his hands find John’s shoulders, pushes him against the mattress and climbs on top of him, caging his shorter frame with his long, deceptively strong limbs. John can’t help but groan a bit, a slow-building, delicious friction growing deep in his pelvis as he cups his warm, plush arse with both hands to pull him in closer as their hips roll together.

They kiss, languid and messy, for what feels like hours but in reality is only a few minutes, before John grows more fully awake and rational thoughts start to intrude. “Sherlock,” he murmurs. “We need to...I should check my messages, and the news feed.”

Sherlock’s body grows still; his messy curly head drops, resting against John’s chest. “We’re wasting valuable time,” he sighs, his raspy, sensual voice flattened by the intrusion of harsh reality. 

“No,” John says. “Not... _wasting_ , exactly. But we just need to make sure we’re not caught unaware. Also, I need to piss and brush my teeth.”

Sherlock nods, rolls off him with a sigh. John clambers out of bed, pads naked into the dark bathroom with reluctance, his instincts unwilling to leave Sherlock alone even for the five minutes it takes to use the loo.

He answers the call of nature, swipes a toothbrush around his mouth, returns to the bedroom. Sherlock is still in bed, gazing at him sleepily, dark curls falling into his eyes, sheets tangled invitingly around his waist.

“Your turn,” John murmurs, sliding back into bed.

“You don’t want me in the frame of the vidphone if you have to make a call,” Sherlock observes.

John quirks an eyebrow at him. “Brilliant deduction, that.” 

Sherlock nods and climbs out of bed without argument. John angles the bedside comm unit away from the open bedroom door and brings it to life. No messages. He scans through the public news feeds, as well as the encrypted police channels, cycles through a few clandestine information forums he officially knows nothing about. No where does he find a word about the escaped replicants, nothing about two violent random deaths in the First Sector.

He switches the comm to standby and closes his eyes with a sigh. Last night’s events unspool behind his lids as he remembers scenes of carnage lit by strobing blue lights, coloured with splashes of crimson gore.

“I don’t blame you, for what it’s worth.” 

John opens his eyes to see a nude, unselfconscious Sherlock looking at him, John’s toothbrush in his hand. He’s framed in the light of the bathroom doorway, all lean lines and mussed curls, his erection still stiff and dark pink against his belly. 

He’s a vision of unlikely beauty unsuited to the near-squalor of John’s grimy little flat.

 _He deserves far better than this_ , John thinks.

“If it wasn’t for me, you’d be safe right now.” The words spill out of John’s mouth unbidden.

“If it wasn’t for you,” Sherlock continues, gesturing at him with the toothbrush. “I’d still be a blinkered fool, living in denial.”

“This is better?” John asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies simply. “Knowledge is always preferable to ignorance.” He disappears back into the loo; turns on the taps as he spits and rinses. He comes back into the bedroom, crosses the room in measured, graceful steps to sit down next to John on the bed, their naked thighs touching. 

“I was out, Sherlock.” John scrubs a hand through tousled hair, swallows hard against the sudden spike of pain, hot and sharp in his chest. “I was done. I was… I’m so tired of the killing. I don’t want to be a part of this anymore.”

“I know,” Sherlock says quietly. “But it occurs to me…” he takes a breath, exhales, touches the bare skin of John’s thigh with uncertain fingers. “I’m a part of this, too. Part and parcel. You say you don’t want any of this. Do you want me, then? Do you want this?”

John can’t help but bring his fingers up to touch Sherlock’s soft, curls, brushing aside the fringe tumbling into one eye.

“I do,” John sighs, his voice strained and ragged with want. “God help me, you know I do.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste time on regrets or might have beens.” Sherlock tilts his head quizzically, narrows his pale eyes as his fingers brush against John’s throat. “Bruises. Ligature marks.”

“Yes.”

“Strangled with your tie. Jefferson didn’t do that.”

“No.”

“It was Irene. She attacked you.”

“Yes. Because I was stalking her. She was afraid.”

“You defended yourself.”

“I was there to kill her.”

“Would you have? If she had begged for mercy, if she had asked you to let her live, would you have killed her?”

“I don’t… No. I don’t think I would have.” John exhales, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I went after her. I murdered an unarmed woman.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock says, voice hard. “I would have happily killed her myself, with my bare hands, for daring to touch you.” His eyes are gone icy grey, and John sees a depth of steely resolve he’d not yet guessed at. 

He likes it.

“Why?” John wonders aloud. “Sherlock, what is happening? Why us, why now?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock replies with unvarnished honesty.

“This is insane.”

“It is.”

“I’ve never felt...”

Sherlock brings his fingers to the back of John’s head, pulls him close.“Neither have I,” he murmurs, hushed and conspiratorial, and kisses him.

 _No one is looking for us yet,_ says the voice of reason in John’s head, still clamouring to be heard over the rushing tide of burning, unquenchable lust. _We have a head start. Use it._

Instead, John kisses him back, pushes his shoulders down onto the bed. These are no longer the desperate fumblings of late nights and flayed nerves but instead something slower, sweeter, more deliberate. He straddles Sherlock’s slim hips, presses a line of kisses down his long neck, moving down his bare torso, exploring him with lips and tongue. His mouth finds a perfect, hard pink nipple, closes around it, sucking and nibbling gently as Sherlock shudders underneath him, tiny choked whimpers caught in his throat.

“You taste so good,” John murmurs, shifting attention to the other nipple, teasing it with a wet tongue as his thumb circles and tease at the other nub of spit-slicked flesh.

“Oh God,” Sherlock moans, his voice ragged and breathless with shocked pleasure. “ _Oh_.”

John has been with others before, of course, both women and men. He was even married for several years, but he sees now how he always felt somehow remote from them, even when intimate, his true self locked behind some kind of invisible wall, at a remove even when touching and kissing and making love. He sees now that before Sherlock he has never really felt much more than a distant, vague affection; touching Sherlock is like moving from pale greys to exploding Technicolor. John has never felt like this before, never felt this inexorable need to taste and touch and explore, this desire to give pleasure, this need to wring delicious pleading noises from his lips, to make him tense and tighten and come over and over again. 

It’s gorgeous and inexplicable and overwhelming, and John feels hot tears spring to his eyes as he slides down Sherlock’s body, pressing lips the sharp crest of his hip.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he murmurs against the skin of Sherlock’s concave belly, milk pale skin bisected by a trail of sparse dark hair. “I’ve been waiting for for you so long.”

Sherlock moans softly in reply, tilting his hips up in silent, unmistakable entreaty, his prick rock hard, dusky pink and rising flush against his lower abdomen. John wraps fingers around the hot, satin smooth skin, nudging the foreskin gently back, stroking him, finding the rhythm as he explores the warm, sweat-damp crease of his groin, tasting the salty musky tang of his body. Sherlock whimpers, spreading his legs wider as he thrusts into the tight circle of John’s fist.

“God, you’re beautiful,” murmurs John reverently, then licks a broad wet stripe up the underside of his shaft, tongues the weeping slit, tastes the salty bitter burst of precome gathering there. He slides his hand under his bollocks, caresses them gently as he slides his mouth around Sherlock’s hard cock. 

It’s been years since he’s been with a man, but he still remembers the basics, swallowing him down to the root, savoring the hot length of him filling his mouth, pulling back to work the broad head of his cock with an eager tongue before taking him back in fully, setting a slow purposeful rhythm that leaves Sherlock incoherent with pleasure. He’s openly moaning now, fists twisted in the sheets, ragged desperate cries setting John’s nerves alight with lust as he suckles him eagerly. He establishes a rhythm, wet suction as his mouth moves up and down the shaft, and it’s only minutes before Sherlock sucks in a deep shuddering breath, his abdominal muscles contracting.

“I can’t--” he gasps. “I’m going to--”

John nods frantically around his mouthful of hard flesh; Sherlock makes a sharp, bitten off cry and he’s coming, hips lifting off the bed, filling John’s mouth with pulse after pulse of thick hot fluid. John swallows every drop eagerly, greedily, gentling and slowing his movements as the aftershocks shiver through Sherlock’s body. He releases his spent cock, kisses the inside of his thigh, rubs gentle circles into the skin of his flat belly as Sherlock’s ragged breathing calms.

“All right?” John asks soothingly.

“I--I…” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “That was. Oh God. I never. I didn’t--Oh, God. _John_.” Long fingers slip through his hair, tug him gently upward. John complies, sliding up to kiss Sherlock, open-mouthed, gloriously wet and seeking. Sharing the taste of Sherlock’s own come with him is shockingly arousing, making his neglected prick pulse and throb. When Sherlock wraps a large hand around John’s hip and pulls him in tight, John can’t help but sigh a little, his hips thrusting almost involuntarily against the warm pliant skin of Sherlock’s lightly furred lower belly.

Sherlock breaks the kiss, mouthing the edge of his jaw, smearing messy kisses against his neck, breath hot against his skin.“Yes,” he gasps. “Do it. Please, I want to feel you against me.”

John brings their mouths together as he rocks harder against Sherlock; every thrust is a delicious, maddening ripple of friction, and he’s so close to coming already, the hot itch of pleasure quickly coalescing into a ball of unbearable tension deep in his pelvis. He drops his head against Sherlock’s shoulder; Sherlock grabs his arse with both hands, encouraging John to rut harder, faster against him.

“You,” John breathes. “You’re amazing, you’re beautiful. I want you, God, I want you so much.” He’s babbling now, mind unmoored by lust and friction, words and feelings he’s never even considered before spilling out unbidden. “I’ll keep you forever. We’ll run away. We’ll run away up north and they won’t find us. We’ll be together, always.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers. “Yes, God, John _please_.”

“You feel so good. So good. Oh, fuck. Oh God, _oh fuck._ ” His words devolve into panting gasps as his balls draw up tight, the tension winding tighter and tighter until it breaks him in two and he’s coming, the pleasure almost unbearable in its intensity, a blinding roaring rush of silvery white as he spills in a hot rush across Sherlock’s belly. 

He collapses onto Sherlock with a groan, limbs shaking with the intensity of his climax, wispy aftershocks of pleasure still rippling across his nerves. The minutes unwind in silence, John panting against the damp skin of Sherlock’s chest as long fingers stroke his back gently.

Reality reasserts itself presently, and as the sticky mess between their bodies cools John feels a corresponding cold ache growing in the pit of his stomach. No matter what he longs for, he can no longer deny the bleak, implacable knowledge that what has developed between them doesn’t change the harsh truths of their situation. 

Sherlock senses the change coming over him and pulls away slightly, giving him a quizzical look. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, just a touch hesitant, as if he already knows and dreads the answer.

“I can’t leave,” John says. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I want to. God, Sherlock I want to. But it’s too late. He won’t stop, this Jim Moriarty. He won’t stop killing, not until he gets whatever it is he wants. I’ve seen it. One replicant is more than a match for ten humans, and when they decide to start killing they don’t stop. If I leave now, the path of destruction he carves is on me. I can’t let that happen.” He pulls Sherlock close, kisses his sweat-damp neck in apology. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock wraps his arms protectively around John’s smaller frame, pressing gentle kisses into his hair as his fingers trace down his spine “Don’t be,” Sherlock murmurs softly, and there’s a hollowness to his voice, an emptiness that hurts his heart. “Of all the things to be, John, don’t be sorry.”

John nods, pressing himself against Sherlock’s long angular body, feeling unable to break away even though they haven’t the time to spare, unwilling to destroy this fragile moment, knowing it is destined to slip away far too soon.

Despite the dire urgency of their situation, the hypnotic rhythm of Sherlock’s fingers tracing up and down his back soothes him, and John sleeps again without meaning to. 

He dreams, the same dream he always has, vague impressions of a unicorn and a lush green forest.

It is full dark when he is woken by both the soft, chiming beep of the vidphone and the bone-deep knowledge that Sherlock is gone.


End file.
